Talk Nerdy To Me
by Aven
Summary: Did you know that the human head weighs 8 pounds? And other burning questions...
1. Corny

One

You know that pain you get in your stomach when you're nervous? Or maybe it's your lower stomach? Do you have a lower stomach? I don't know. Anyway, I get a terrible pain in my "lower stomach" when I'm about to try anything new, whether it be Chinese food or a new job. It starts grumbling and talking to me like a mumbling lunatic having a conversation with himself. Eventually, I know that whatever this new experience is, I'll do fine with it. Yet the pain still comes, and I still feel like running away from a challenge, any challenge, and hiding in the little girl's room.

That's the feeling I had today. My Lucky Charms were churning inside of me as I drove my POS to my new job at the Las Vegas crime lab. How does a girl like me who doesn't know if the human body has a lower stomach get a job at a crime lab? It's called being a secretary, and it has saved my butt more than once. I couldn't tell you the difference between your sternum and your...um....other-um. But I can answer phones, I can take down messages and numbers, and I can relay them to other people. How's that for talent?

Pulling up to the building, it was worse than I thought. It was so official looking, but not in an official government way like the sterile DMV. It was clean and streamlined, with sleek tinted glass doors and a discrete exterior. There were navy blue trucks parked everywhere, and my tiny car cowered at the presence of these monsters. When I don't know what to do with myself, I start talking to the car. I even named it Cornelius.

"What have we gottin' ourselves into, Corny?" I asked him, his response being nothing but a rusty muffler and squeaky brakes.

The inside was even worse. People walking everywhere, reading open files and pulling pens out of the pockets of their lab coats. There was no specific division between the rooms; it was like one giant ballroom with glass partitions to keep the cool kids away from the nerdy kids. I wondered which side I belonged on.

I tried to blend in, playing it cool like I knew exactly what I was doing and where I was going. That didn't last long, though, when I walked into a dead end hallway. Maybe a different direction....

Eventually, I found my new boss and my station. She was a short, plump woman with harsh eyelashes and a severe perm. Her official title was Dr. Clark, but we were welcome to call her Missy. She hoped it would break down any uncomfortable barriers between employee and boss, but I knew it wouldn't. I bet she has a lot of cats. She looks like the kind of woman who wears Christmas sweaters with jolly snowmen on them and tucks her cats into bed at night. Creepy.

Since I was a "newbie", Missy didn't want to start me out on a hectic routine. I was to stay at the desk and only answer the phone, do nothing else. If it was an emergency, I was supposed to find Missy immediately and leave the rest of it up to her. But how often can the phone ring in a crime lab? I realize that this is a highly important business I'm working for, but I won't be chatting all day, will I? Maybe there was a computer I could play on somewhere. I had been meaning to perfect my solitaire.

Oh how wrong I was. Within my first two hours on the job, I had received 34 phone calls, no repeat callers. Some were from the newspapers, others from attorney's offices, and even more from other crime labs. They had tested the DNA, sperm, blood, etc...and found out the identity of it's owner. Isn't technology great? Those were the calls that confused me the most. The person on the other line would use 6-syllable words and assume that I understood exactly what they were talking about. To be honest, Japanese would have been easier to comprehend.

By hour three, I started to get into the grove of how everything worked. There would be scientists in here 24 hours a day, studying in their eerily lit labs and speaking all sorts of jive that I didn't understand. But they weren't as intimidating as I had first thought them to be. Many of them came up to the desk, asking if I had a pen they could use or just saying hello to the new face. I know it's not a life changing moment when you share your Sharpie with someone, but it's quite a big step.

This is pretty much how I met all of my new co-workers. Missy was swamped that day, and didn't have anytime to take me around to all the stations and tell me what not to touch, where not to go, and whom not to speak to. My first encounter was probably the strangest of all. A man in maybe his mid-50s came walking up to my desk, his nose deep in a manilla folder. Before speaking to me, he turned his head upwards, as if searching for Jesus in the ceiling panels. Only his eyes were closed, not tightly like he was tense, but just barely like a sleeping baby. Eventually, he lost interest in the Virgin Mary or whatever it was he was looking for and focused in on me.

"You're new, yes?" He spoke with a matter-of-fact tone. A tone like all of the teachers in high school who pose everything they say as a question to make _you_ find the answers. He sounded just slightly nasally, like the president of the Audio Visual club, and I was sure that he had once been a Dungeons and Dragons enthusiast.

"Yes. I'm Matilda Swanson." I stood up from my cushy rolling chair and offered my hand to him. _Take this peace offering good sir, and we shall be allies in battle_.

He reluctantly shook my hand, staring me squarely in the eyes the entire time as if he didn't trust me. Did I fit the profile of a murderer? Short, dark haired, pale skin, slightly chubby? Was I the Daughter of Sam?

Unlikely, because before I really knew what was going on, he was telling me to come with him. I had become accustomed to the other people in the building by now, but this guy freaked me out. I followed closely behind him, not even realizing I had disobeyed Missy's orders and left my station. He just had that authoritative feel to him, like a sinister gym teacher who would make you climb the rope, or else.

"I didn't ask you what your name was." Oh good, Matilda. At least now he knows how observant your are. He kept walking rapidly in front of me, and I thought maybe he hadn't heard the question. After a moment though, he turned his head sideways so that I could see his profile, his eyes trying to watch me walking behind him.

"Gil Grissom." he said. I guess he wasn't much on talk. Or preparing the welcome wagon.

Despite my most sinister preconceptions of Grissom, he wasn't going to interrogate me in a cold, dark room. He was just taking me around the stations and doing what Missy should have done a long time ago. Each room was set up for some different aspect of breaking down a crime. In one room, they had gathered all of the physical evidence of a particular case and there were three people hovering around it like hungry vultures to lost, starving tourists in the Nevada desert. They only looked up when Grissom cleared his throat. He was obviously their superior.

"Sara Sidle, Warrick Brown, Nick Stokes, this is Matilda Swanson, our new receptionist." Receptionist. I liked the way he made it sound. So official, like I really did have a purpose there. The two men and one woman smiled at me, not bothering will the whole mess that would come with hand shakes and a proper meet and greet. I did the same, waving like a little kid does to their parents in the school play. I quickly put down my hand and held one arm in the other before I caused them to do anything stupider. _Hey look, guys! I can juggle evidence!_

I didn't have much of an opportunity to study the three as I would have liked, but I got the gist of who they were. Warrick was a tall man with a mini-afro (minus the obligatory pick comb stuck in the back) and a somewhat dark complexion. Yet his eyes were clear, piercing blue, leading me to believe that he is mixed. See, I can do this science stuff. The girl, Sara, had a comforting feel to her. She wasn't overly gorgeous or boastful. She wore her hair down in a plain Jane way, and had a gap between her two front teeth that seemed to only make her more approachable. I knew I was going to like her. Nick was built like a football player, with a thick neck and stout muscular build. I could smell his cologne from the doorway, and immediately labeled him as a lady's man. My later experiences with him would prove this theory wrong and give me the clue that I need to stop watching so much "Saturday Night Live".

I stood behind Grissom as he spoke to the three about what they were reviewing. They obviously didn't find me as a threat being in the room, and I couldn't blame them. No master criminal I have ever heard of wears an Old Navy floral sweater on the first day of the job. Although I have heard stories about Charles Manson...

My train of thought was broken by another unavoidable presence in the room. A tall boy, if you could call him that, maybe in his early 20s, came almost galloping into the lab. His hair was spiked to the heavens, and a piece of paper was grasped tightly in his hand like a Christmas present. He had a dopey look of satisfaction and "I-told-you-so-ness" on his face.

"Boss," he said, directing his enthusiasm at Grissom. "I got the results back from the blood sample on the sweatshirt. It doesn't match the victim's blood, or his mom's." Clearly, they had all forgotten that a quaint receptionist was still in the room, overhearing every detail of a no-doubt highly guarded case.

"If it's not the mother's blood, that rules out our only suspect." Sara said from across the table, disbelief in her voice. They all hung their heads in agreement.

"Who _does_ the blood belong to, Greg?" Grissom asked the Chia-Pet look alike. I took advantage of their oblivion to get a better look at this Greg character, and saw the sort of cuteness that I would have swooned over in junior high, but not now.

"We're still waiting for the results." Greg replied, looking at Grissom like a puppy dog with his tail between his legs who just pooped on the carpet and knew his owner would be disappointed.

"Well when you know something, come find me." Grissom said, and at that, Greg turned on one foot and began to make his exit. It was the sight of me, an unknown, that slowed his departure.

"Hellooo..." he said, his shoulders perking up and his shame gone. "Who are you?" he asked as we politely shook hands with one another.

"This is Matilda Swanson," Grissom answered for me, suddenly coming back down to earth and the fact that I had been in the room the entire time. "She's the replacement for Mrs. Finn." Poor Mrs. Finn. They ship her off to the retirement palace and replace her with a newbie like me.

"Greg Sanders," he said, satisfaction slowly creeping back onto his face. "Welcome to the crime lab."

For a second, I felt my knees go weak and my face turn bright red like a tomato. Was I in junior high all over again?


	2. Halloweenie

Two

I went home that night wondering about all the people I had met in one day, and all the small yet significant experiences I had. Las Vegas was not a city for the faint of heart, or the weak of stomach, so what was I doing there? I belonged in suburbia, where I had grown up. I was supposed to be getting married and being a soccer mom with long red finger nails and vacations to Maine. This was far from the life I had planned on living just two years ago.

I was by no means the Queen of cool, but I believed that in certain situations I could blend in. My co-workers were a different story. They seemed out of place in such an upbeat party city; so out of their element. I wondered why a man as smart as Grissom had come to Las Vegas. Even more so, I wondered what he did here when he wasn't working. Where do the nerds go if not to the casinos and dance clubs? State of the art arcades? Late night movies? Nerd conventions? I was desperate to find out, because to be honest, I was feeling like a loser in a cool world, too.

The next few weeks blurred into one long and messy day, and I felt myself tiring from the routine of my new life already. Missy had upgraded me from answering phones to sending and delivering faxes, but that was even more depressing than my original assignment. At least the phone offered me the opportunity to have contact with the outside world. I could actually talk to breathing human beings; flirt with the men with sweet voices, joke with tired investigators, even fight with certain media figures. Now, my conversations were "Beep, Beep. Paper Jam".

It was only a few days ago that I realized why Grissom had such a strong interest in a nobody receptionist like me, and why he felt it necessary to introduce me to Warrick, Sara and Nick. More than any other workers in the building, I relayed messages to them and sometimes even brought them crucial evidence, hot off the fax machine. They became my real co-workers and everyone else in the building was just a blur of blue lab coats. I guess it was better this way. It was hard enough for me to get to know one person, so I wasn't looking forward to being buddy-buddy with 100 of them.

I was right about Sara. I instantly liked her personality, and where she stood in every case. She was the kind of woman I wanted to be growing up. The strong woman who called the shots and didn't take crap from anyone. She had a sort of tomboyish quality to her, like she would have rather played football with the boys than gone shopping with the girls. She was really the only person who chatted with me. The others would pass my desk, back and forth busy on a case, and wave or smile casually. But Sara would walk up the desk, lean casually over the ledge like we were two teenagers telling secrets. It wasn't a huge gesture, but when you have no one else in such a big city to rely on, it's comforting.

On certain occasions, I found myself watching Greg as he walked by, his head down reading an important document, his hair still spiked upwards. I fell into a sort of trance, but caught myself before anyone else did. I always did this when I thought that a man was even slightly attractive. I would think about them off and on all day, and primp and preen just for the two seconds he walked by in the hallway. I tried to tell myself that those little glimpses he gave me were signs of his undying love and affection, but then I took my crazy pills and everything made sense again. We didn't say much to each other, just the mandatory co-worker talk. Until Halloween, that is...

Growing up, Halloween was always my favorite holiday. But now, as an adult, you need a good excuse to dress up as a Teletubby. I miss Trick-or-Treating (Hello free candy) and staying up until midnight trying to get my face paint out of my pores. It's only acceptable for older folks when they're going to some office party, and even then, the customs aren't as fun. You're either schorlarly and boring, or overly sexy. I was neither one.

I had been so focused on this new job that Halloween snuck up on me out of nowhere. It didn't even register in my mind until I was brushing my teeth that morning and heard the radio DJ announce it. Having no one else to celebrate with, I told Cornelius "Happy Halloween" and began on my way to work. The entire ride there, I contemplated the crime lab and whether anyone there was shameless enough to dress up. I imagined Grissom in a pink bunny suit, or Warrick decked out in 70's pimp wear, and giggled to myself.

Unfortunately, no one was dressed up when I got to work. It was the same blue lab coats, and the same business casual polo shirts and khakis. I knew I should have been a grade school teacher; on this particular day, it would have been a much more gratifying (and entertaining) job.

"Happy Halloween!" Missy cheered as I approached my desk, the phone already ringing and the fax machine backed up. I gasped at the sight of her chunky orange sweater with pumpkin and black cat buttons and a "spooky" scene. Spookier to me was the fact that people actually wore that stuff. I knew she was a novelty holiday sweater wearer!

"Good morning, Missy." I didn't even try to fake enthusiasm.

"Someone isn't in the Halloween spirit." she replied, making a frowning face and approaching me, ready for a hug. No, not that! Anything but hugs!

"Yeah, everyone in this building." My comment stopped her, made her think, and then go right back to that Betty Crocker smile.

"I know what you need." And with that, Missy pulled a handful of candy out of one of her oversized pockets and set it on the desk in front of me. "I can tell you like candy."

She can tell I like candy? It's one thing for me to think that I'm fat, but to have a fatter person tell you so is just the worst. I produced a grim smile, and acted like I was working so she would buzz off. In reality, I was playing with the stapler like I did whenever I had nothing else to do. I started out just hitting it over and over again so that all the staples would run out and I could refill the tiny machine to look busy. But I realized that it was such a waste of good staples, and started punching them into paper in designs and patterns: hearts, my name, anything I could think of. I got a little ambitious when I tried to make the Eiffle Tower, and gave up in frustration.

I started punching the curves of a fat pumpkin into a fresh sheet of paper when Greg appeard over me, hovering for a moment before he said anything.

"Stapler art?" I jumped at his question, and quickly slammed my art project down on the desk. I should really go back to the first grade, where I belong.

"I was just testing out the new staplers...and hey, they work!" Dumb. Stupid. Stupid. Dumb. Dumb Matilda. Getting over my shame, I then realized that Greg was wearing a bright blue and purple silk Genie hat with the most conviction I had ever seen out of any guy in a Genie hat. He noticed my staring.

"What?" he asked innocently. "It's Halloween."

"No, it's lovely. It's just that your the only one who seems to be interested in Halloween around here."

"Are you kidding me?! An excuse to dress up and get free candy? Where do I sign up?" I laughed at his enthusiasm, even blushing a little. But after that cutesy moment, I felt the dreaded awkward silence coming on. I had to say something quick, before I made an even bigger ass of myself. Great, now I would be chubby and uninteresting.

"I love candy," Oh that was a great comment.

"Who doesn't?" he asked casually, and I was relived that he hadn't noticed my complete dorkiness. "Hey, got any plans tonight?"

"No." Actually, my good friends Ben and Jerry were coming over and we were all going to watch "Pretty Woman" and cry because there is still no man as good as Richard Gere. Of course, I couldn't tell Greg that.

"Let's go Trick-or-treating." I stared at him blankly, as if he had just sprouted another head and started up a conversation with it. How was I supposed to react to this? Was he joking, making fun of me? Or was he serious?

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Yeah, come on. I realize it's kind of immature, but it'll be fun." On the inside, I laughed at how a super smart guy like Greg could still get kicks out of dressing like a Power Ranger and begging for candy. I made a vow to myself from that point on to never again judge people on their outside personas (yeah right).

"I don't have a costume."

"No problem," he brushed off my comment casually with his hand. "You're in Vegas. If you can't find a last minute costume here, something is definetly wrong." And before I knew what was going on, or who I was even, I had made a date with Greg for that night - to go Trick-or-Treating. After he left my desk to go back to his work, I was faced with the ultimate girl problem: I had nothing to wear!


	3. Night of the Bloody Ear

Three

I learned very quickly to expect the unexpected from Greg. When I got home from work that night, he had already left a message on my answering machine. Being the optimist that I am, I was sure he was calling to cancel our, well, "date". Instead, he rambled on for two minutes about how he had made a complete idiot of himself at work, and admitted that he only asked me to go Trick-or- Treating because the topic came up. In all actuality, Greg had originally wanted to go to an all night movie scare fest, and I was his lucky Elvira of choice to go with. I was ecstatic about our new plans for the night, even if I was a big coward when it came to horror films. But anything beats scouring Vegas for a size nine cowgirl outfit.

Aside from my complete lack of courage (I couldn't even watch "Chucky" without turning on all the lights in my apartment), I had another dilemma. I was an early to bed, late to rise kind of girl. The latest I had ever stayed up since moving to Vegas was midnight, and that was only because I was trying to catch a mouse that had been living behind my couch, and set it free, back into the wild of the city. The movie fest didn't even start until midnight, so I had to think up something fast. I tried downing cup after cup of caffeinated coffee; I tried taking energy pills; I even considered taking a cold shower, but that was a little to "Crying Game" for my taste. When midnight rolled around, I wasn't any more awake than I had been that morning - I was just jumpier and slightly more spastic. I hoped the twitching in my left eye would stop before Greg came to pick me up.

Luckily, my eye and all the rest of me was back to normal (whatever that is) by the time Greg arrived. I took a note from Bridget Jones, and tried to act like I was busy when he came to the door (also see Cher in "Clueless" and always having something baking in the oven when a man comes over). To be honest, I was ready half an hour before he came, but I couldn't let my excitement show. So I shed my coat and earrings, and decided I would do the old answer-the-door- while-putting-in-your-earrings like my mom used to do. Unfortunately, I lacked the coordination of my graceful mother. As I heard a knock at the door, I went to answer it, one hand extended outward and the other holding the earring to my ear. I opened the door to see Greg and his hair standing there, just finishing with my earring and smiling like I had accomplished something great. Or maybe not so great, because Greg started giving me the strangest look.

"Your ear is bleeding." he said. I lifted my hand to my ear and felt the blood trickling out of the spot where I had poked my earring through. Graceful I was not.

"Damnit." I cursed to myself, speed walking to the kitchen before any blood got on the carpet. Greg came in, closed the door behind him, and followed me into the kitchen. If the whole ear situation hadn't happened, I would have been very self conscious of what he thought about my apartment. It wasn't a very big space, but come on, it was just me living there. I don't live with life size replicas of the Jolly Green Giant like Michael Jackson does.

"No, no, no," Greg entered the kitchen just as I was pressing a dry paper towel to my ear. "You gotta get the towel wet or it'll stick to your skin." I let him take the towel from my hand and run it under the faucet. I watched as the small spot of blood on the towel smeared into a sort of water color painting on a super absorbent canvas. Wow, that Bounty really does work. He rang it out , and I attempted to take it back from him, but he wasn't having any of that.

"It's fine. Just tilt your head a little." he said. I did as I was told, and he lightly pressed the damp cloth against my throbbing ear, the cold water soothing it. I could feel his eyes on me, or on my ear at least, as he stood inches from my body, the back of his hand brushing against my cheek. I tried to think of something, anything, to distract him before he began to find all of my little imperfections.

"I figured a little blood would be good on Halloween," I joked. "It's a good ice breaker."

He laughed and nodded his head in agreement.

"Yeah, well, it did get the conversation going," he said.

"Yeah, I'm sure all the girls love it when you tell them _their_ ears are bleeding."

I saw him smile again out of the corner of my eye, and felt good that I had at least made a small positive contribution to the evening - jokes. We stood there in silence for a little while longer, Greg's hand still holding my makeshift bandage in place. Greg and I both began to realize the complete weirdness of our situation. Two people our age, male and female, who could possibly be attracted to one another, in an almost intimate situation. But there was nothing sexual about it. Still, I felt Greg's body lean into mine. Was it sexual for him?

I had never seen anyone so excited about a campy horror flick as Greg was that night. We sat front and center at the theatre, my neck cramped from craning my head upwards to look at the screen. The feature of the evening was "Evil Dead", and while I had never seen the film myself, I was pretty sure Greg had. He would lean into my arm every few minutes and explain how great the camera angles were or what was going to happen next. I was actually paying more attention to Greg's proximity to me and the quality of my breath than what was going on in the film, but I tried to look interested for his sake.

When the movie was over and the house lights came on, I had my first opportunity to really take a look at the people in the theatre; the other late night patrons. There were heavyset, long haired guys with Dungeons and Dragons T-shirts. There were some emo kids in the back of the theatre, wearing Elliot Smith T-shirts and thick rimmed glasses. And then there were the guys like Greg, the young, technologically savvy, well dressed pseudo nerds, each with a pretty girl on his arm. But not just the clueless, Paris Hilton kind of girls - the pretty girls who could argue about politics with you and then kick your butt in Trivial Pursuit. College pretty, I guess you could say, as compared to High School pretty. Little Natalie Portmans, minus the fame. I wondered if I could ever be considered one of those girls.

Greg's voice brought me out of my trance.

"What time is it?" he asked, stretching his long arms over his head and yawning.

I checked my watch.

"2:30."

"Wanna get out of here?" he asked.

"Now? But I thought this was a fest," I answered. "Doesn't a fest entail numerous movies?"

"Yeah, but I've had enough of this stuff for one night." he paused, looking slightly concerned. "Unless you want to stay."

"No, let's go." I answered before he had barely finished his sentence. Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of the movies. But if I had to watch anymore fake gore and screaming, I may have turned into an evil dead myself.

The city was still alive when we stepped out of the dark theatre. The neon casino signs blazed like the sun, and I had to squint to even look up from the ground. If my IQ had been a few points lower at the moment, I would have sworn it was daytime.

Not knowing my way around such a hectic city, I let Greg lead the way. I was surprised when he headed into a fast food joint, the tables still covered in crumbs and the lighting harsh and sterile.

"This place has the best milkshakes in Vegas," he explained. Is this what nerds did? Scary movie followed by a milkshake?

Our time in the restaurant went from minutes to hours, and before I knew what was going on, the sun was peaking it's head over the horizon (or was another casino sign just being turned on?). We had been talking forever, about anything we could conjure up in our strange minds. The conversation went from the movie to my family to his family to the crime lab, and everything in between. I had never felt this natural around someone before, like telling him something was just as easy as telling myself. I was heartbroken when Greg began to stand up to leave, but I couldn't let the experience end without asking a question that had been on my mind all night.

"Greg," I said shyly. "Can I ask you something?"

He sat back down in his chair, his head resting on one of his hands.

"Sure," he said.

"Why did you ask me out? I mean, I'm not saying it was a date or anything, but I was just curious to know why, so I thought I would ask..." He interrupted my rambling, and I will be forever grateful for that. Who knows what I would have said next.

"Why did I ask you out?" he repeated the question, and I nodded my head in response. "Because you're different." Well I already knew that.

"Different?" I asked. Different like special or different like special education?

"Well, here's the thing," he began his explanation. "Everyone in the crime lab is always so uptight and so tense. There's always something going on to stress them out, and I can't deal with that. I'm just naturally an easy going guy. I mean, I try not to let anything get the best of me. You have no idea how hard it is to deal with those people sometimes. Don't get me wrong, their great people, but sometimes, I feel like they're robots more than humans." I nodded in agreement, but his little speech didn't really answer my question.

"What does that have to do with me?" I asked.

"Ok," he turned his head downwards towards the table, but his eyes looked up at me like a sad puppy dog, embarrassed about what he was going to say. "I found a memo that you sent to Grissom. I don't even remember what it was about, but on the bottom, you wrote the Sesame Street song. You know, 'Sunny Days....'". He sang a little of the song, and I could feel myself blushing. I figured no one had seen that, not even Grissom.

"I can't believe you saw that," I said, putting my face in my hands.

"No, no. I liked it. It was like something I would have done." he said. I looked up at him, trying to see if he was joking or serious. "You just seemed so young and unspoiled by all of the gore in the crime lab and the big city stuff. I thought you would be fun to hang out with."

His explanation came out of left field, but I was glad that I had asked the question. Now I could be sure that this wasn't some pity date for the new girl. I made a mental note to write more songs on the bottom of memos. I mean, look at the good results.


	4. A Spaced Odyssey

Sorry, readers, but this is going to be a very short chapter. I know it has been a little while since I've posted anything, and I swear I am going to finish this story. It just may take a while with everything else I have going on. Stay with me. Besides, it builds suspense.

Four

After our night of movies and milkshakes, it felt like Greg and I spent all of our free time together. When we weren't exchanging quick glances or goofy faces in the office, we were plotting our next immature prank or thinking of something to cure our boredom. I would have never assumed that I would become bored in Las Vegas, yet here I was on a Saturday night, organizing my shoe collection (and that's sad, considering I only have six pairs of shoes). Greg was like my savior: he saved me from a life of sheer pointlessness.

Like two nine-year-old best friends, we started a sort of community notebook, if you could consider Greg and I a community. It was where we wrote our ideas, our thoughts, our frustrations. It was a place for anything and everything that we couldn't share with other people. Oh yeah, and we also thought out some of our best plans. We once dressed in black turtlenecks and berets, and snapped our fingers in applause at a beatnik poetry jam - as a joke of course. Another time, we took a late night trip to a toy store to play with the hoola hoops until we were sternly asked to leave and never come back. Afterwards, sitting in Greg's car, we could barely breath from the fits of laughter. We acted like stoners without the Mary-Jane.

The only problem was that whenever I wasn't around Greg, I wasn't happy. And I don't mean that in a possessive, clingy way. I just mean that compared to everyone else, Greg had so much life and energy. It was like the energy he emitted was bright yellow, and everyone else's was poop brown. Missy caught me in a daze one day at work, and decided to confirm her suspicions.

"It's the one with the hair, isn't it?" she asked, startling me. I was sitting at my desk, my chin resting on my hand and my eyes glazed over. My body was there, but my mind wasn't.

"I'm sorry?" The fat cells in her body had obviously taken over her brain now, too.

"The boy that works here, the one with the strange hair-do," Missy said, seeming more strict and uptight than she had ever been before. She went from grade school teacher to prison guard. "You can't stop thinking about him."

"Missy, that's ridiculous," I began to say, but she cut me off.

"I notice these kinds of things. I'm not here just to look pretty," well I could have figured that out on my own.

"What are you trying to say?" I knew exactly what she was trying to say, but I hoped that my innocent act would throw her off. No such luck for moi.

"I'm just stating the obvious: that you like this guy. I have nothing wrong with it, but if it starts to hinder your work, you and I will have to have a chat about men." And with that, she turned on her fat foot and walked away, towards the donuts, I think. What could Missy possibly have to say about men? Did she think I needed help in the romance department?

After sitting there for a moment, the biggest question of all popped into my head: was I that obvious? Had I been doing this everyday, not noticing? I thought about all of the meetings I had been too, and all of the messages I had taken absentmindedly. If Missy noticed my spaciness, I'm sure that her much more intelligent co-workers did, too. And if they knew that I and Greg were hanging out, they would think I was in love with him or something. And then they would tell Greg, and I would have to face his accusations at a later point and time....

Breath, Matilda, breath...This is not high school. It just _feels_ like high school in a fancier building with better lunches. I put my head back on my shoulders, and viewed my options. I needed to find Greg and talk to him before someone else (like Missy) did.


	5. O, Henry

Five

I barely took two steps from my desk before running into Sara - literally. She stumbled back a little, no doubt because of my hefty weight compared to hers. I was relived when she looked up to see who had caused the collision and smiled.

"Matilda," she said. "I was just coming to talk to you."

"Oh, yeah?" I wanted to get to Greg quick, but it was just as important for me to work on other relationships at work, sexual or otherwise.

"Do you mind if we go somewhere private?" she gestured with her thumb to an empty interrogation room, and I shook my head yes. I hoped she wasn't going to put me under a burning light and assault me for taking that last donut on Tuesday. Hey, it's not like donuts belong to specific people, ya know? She who gets there first gets the donut...or something like that.

The room was so "Law and Order", it was scary. The walls were blank and grey, and the only pieces of furniture in the room were some harsh, cold silver chairs and a battered table. The single light overhead buzzed at us as I sat across from Sara. She folded her hands around each other like a disappointed parent does, and I braced myself for the worst.

"How's everything going?" she asked.

"Alright, I suppose," I was a little shocked at her calmness. Wasn't this the part where she pointed a finger two inches from my eye and said "I know you did it, Swanson."?

"I know this place can be stressful, but it's every bit worth it."

"Oh, I know," she didn't need to tell me how lucky I was to work in a place like the crime lab. "This job is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I've met so many new people, and I've really discovered this independence I never knew I had." Corny, yes, but true.

"Like Greg?" Again, for the second time that day, I was caught off guard by the mention of Greg.

"Sorry?" I batted my eyelashes rapidly, trying to look clueless.

"Well, it's just that you two have been spending a lot of time together," she said, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. I suddenly felt a little threatened by her tomboyish demeanor and sat back in my chair. Was she a jealous ex-girlfriend?

"It's not like that, Sara," I tried to explain. "We just go to movies and do dumb stuff like that."

"Matilda, it's fine," she laughed at my obvious discomfort. She sensed my fears and relaxed into her chair, trying to seem friendly and approachable. For a moment, she was the Sara I saw on the first day. The vulnerable one. "I'm not an ex-girlfriend or anything," Whoa. Freaky ESP.

"Sorry. I didn't know." I blushed the same bright pink as my sweater.

"I just wanted to let you know how important Greg is to all of us here," she said. What did she think I was going to do? Stuff him in a trash bag and drop him into Niagra Falls? "You see, when you work with someone for such a long time, you're almost like a family. I know I speak for all of us when I say that Greg is a major part of this family."

"Of course," I gave her my full attention, like a scared student.

"All I'm trying to say is that he is a wonderful, smart, funny guy," she paused, gathering her thoughts. "Just don't do anything to hurt him, okay?"

"Of course." That was all I could think to say. Did Sara really think I could hurt Greg, physically or emotionally? To be honest, I couldn't even hurt a fly. I mean, I've tried, but those damn little bugs are fast.

Sara got up to leave, but my end of the conversation wasn't quite over. I figured Sara had opened up to me about caring for Greg, so I could do the same to her.

"Sara, wait," I said. She turned around, ready for whatever I was about to say. "So does everyone in the crime lab think that Greg and I have, well, a thing going on?"

"Nah," she brushed off my question. "Let's just say I used my women's intuition to figure it out."

"Oh," I smiled, trying to make it seem like I was satisfied with that answer, even though I wasn't. "Just in case, I was on my way to talk to Greg about it before he heard from someone else."

"Well, you'll have to wait until tomorrow," she replied. "Greg's at home, sick as a dog."

"Oh my gosh. Is he okay?"

"Oh, he's fine. It's probably just a hangover." She said, laughing to herself. I could tell she was getting lost in her thoughts for a moment, but she came back down to earth and looked over at me, like a brilliant idea had just hit her in the head. "Maybe you could go see him after work. I'll bet that will make him feel better."

I thought the idea was harmless enough, so I got Greg's address from Sara and headed to his apartment after my shift was over. Being as paranoid as I am, I thought that maybe Greg would find my visit a little stalker-like. But we had been seeing each other nonstop for the past few weeks. I was only being a good friend, right?

His apartment building was substantially nicer than my place, with all of the fixings of a paradise-in-the-desert resort. There were potted tropical plants on the stairs, and Mediterranean style tiles on the walls. I could have lived in the hallway of this place. I found his door, and fixed myself up before knocking. Just the usual chap stick and smoothing of the hair. Nothing out of the ordinary. The sound of my fist against the door echoed in the hallway and made a hollow thud. I heard someone stumbling around inside, the various locks being undone, and the door opening a crack to let in only a sliver of the outside world. When Greg saw that it was me, he opened the door all the way and I saw him standing there in his ratty T-shirt and boxers, his hair sticking in twenty different directions, which is nothing new. The inside of his apartment was dark, and he squinted into the daylight.

"What are you doin' here?" he asked before letting out a gigantic yawn.

"I heard you were sick, so I thought I would come by and see how you were doing," I felt my face getting warm, and realized that this was the first time I had ever been nervous around Greg. I was standing outside of his apartment, the place where he eats, sleeps, goes to the bathroom, has sex, everything. And there he was, in nothing but boxers and a T-shirt.

"Aww," he joked. A goofy smile spread across his face, and he gestured for me to follow him inside. He flicked on a light switch, and I took the opportunity to observe the male in his natural habitat. His apartment was huge, with posters and framed pictures of art and family members on the walls and the shelves. His furniture had a modern edge to it, but it wasn't uncomfortable or unbearable; it was just hip. There were stacks of magazines and books on his coffee table, not that they got much use. For in front of the coffee table hung the largest flat screen TV that I have ever seen, with numerous video game systems plugged in and cords spread all over the floor.

"Greg, I had no idea you had a kid," I teased, pointing out the X Box, the Playstation, the Willy Wonka Time Machine, and whatever else they name those video game systems. He grinned before opening a door off of his living room. I barely had time to think before a giant brown dog came running towards me, tackling me to the floor and wagging his tail vigorously. I heard Greg telling the dog "no" and "get down", but I didn't mind all of the affection. I had lived with dogs my entire life. It was only when I moved to Vegas that I wasn't allowed to have a pet. I was beyond jealous of Greg and his superior apartment.

"Oh, he's fine," I managed to shout between a scruffy face give me repeated licks on the face. Still, I felt the pressure of the dog lessen, and realized that Greg was pulling him off of me like a parent pulls their child off of a Mickey Mouse mascot at Disney World.

"Sorry about that," Greg apologized. "Henry gets a little overzealous when he meets new people." I stood up and tried to brush the dog hair off of my black coat. Yeah right, like that was going to work.

"Are you kidding? I love dogs." I said, bending over to rub behind Henry's left ear. His back paw started kicking in pleasure, and Greg stood there dumbfounded for a moment.

"No one can ever get him to do that." he said. I straightened myself back up and met eyes with Greg, who was staring at me just like he did that first night we went out together and my ear was a bloody mess.

"It's no big deal," I tried to brush off his slight amazement, but let myself gloat for a minute, thinking that maybe the dog prefers me more than anyone else. I do seem to attract dogs - canine and human. "Your apartment is unbelievable. Tell me again why we never hang out over here." He let go of Henry, and thought about my question.

"I don't know," he answered. "I guess we just met up that first night at your place, so that was kinda easier to go to."

"Yeah," I agreed. "But this is like Buckingham Palace compared to my apartment. I may have to come spend the night sometime." I was only joking, but I surprised even myself at the frankness of my comment. I gave him a sly smile, and he returned the look.

"You're welcome to." His response caught me off guard, and we stood smiling bashfully at one another, the sexual tension so thick, you could cut it with a knife. What was different about today? Why had I been completely normal around Greg every other time except now? I quickly changed the subject.

"So, how are you feeling?" I asked, running my fingers over a stack of magazines and planting my butt on the black couch.

"Oh, I'm fine. I just had a little headache."

"Sure ya did," I responded, tilting my head back and acting like I was drinking out of a bottle. There was so much booze in Vegas, there were alcoholic air waves. It was like second hand smoke - you could get a buzz off of it. Second hand drunk. He smiled slightly, but then went to a pensive look, squinting his eyes as if he were confused (like George Bush does.).

"You didn't have to come over to check on me," he said.

"I know," I replied. "I actually came over to talk to you about something else." Courage, don't fail me now.

"What?" he asked, sitting next to me on the couch. We turned towards each other, our knees touching. I could see the dark circles under his eyes and feel the warmth of his breath as he exhaled.

"Well, some of the people at the lab have been talking," I began. I tried to play it cool and laugh like the idea was absurd. "They think that we're not just hanging out together. They think we have something going on." Greg laughed nervously at this, too. We were both on the same page, trying to play off whatever it was that was happening between the two of us. I began to realize that maybe Greg had been feeling the same way about me that I had been feeling about him. He stopped laughing and looked me square in the eyes, licking his dry lips.

"Do we have something going on?" he whispered. I focused in on his eyes. At that moment, they seemed so clear, so fluid. I couldn't think straight.

"I don't know," I managed to push the words past my teeth and out of my mouth, barely audible.

"Do you want something to go on?" he asked, inching closer to my face.

"Yes," I answered, and he began to slowly shake his head.

"Me, too." And with that, Greg leaned in and kissed me gently on the mouth, hesitating before he slipped his tongue past my lips. We pressed our faces closer together, putting pressure on one another's bodies during the climax of the kiss. When we parted lips, my eyes were still closed, but I knew that Greg had opened his, and was staring at me. I didn't want to open my eyes. I didn't want that feeling to be an illusion or a dream. I wanted everything in that moment to be real: the apartment, the dog, the feeling of Greg's hand on my thigh.

When I finally found the courage to part my eyelids, I saw Greg smiling at me like a fool in love. It was real, and he was real. And the sound of the dog peeing on the carpet was real.

"Henry!" Greg shouted, rising to his feet and stomping over to the scene of the crime. This was my fairy tale, and the man sponging up the dog urine was my Prince Charming.


	6. Damnit!

Thank you everybody who is sending me reviews! Please keep up the comments and suggestions - they fuel me to write more!

Six

Women can be so stupid sometimes. I've had a problem with my body my entire life, and believe me, if there has been a diet fad to try, I've tried it and failed miserably. Thing is, I seem to be the only one who disapproves of my shape. My former boyfriends have never filed complaints with the Department of Fat, and my friends are always telling me I look fine, whatever that means. Greg is the same way. Whatever I see as a flaw on my body, he sees as a little bit of perfection. What's wrong with the boy?

He may have a slight stomach fetish, because whenever the two of us are alone, he gravitates to my abdomen, whether he's kissing it or simply poking at me like I'm a life size version of Pop-N- Fresh.

"Don't mess with the tummy," I'll moan like an insecure six-year-old, but he'll just grin at me.

"But I love your little Buddha belly," he'll say. Either he's being honest, and likes my body for how it is, or he is some sick demented freak posing as a scientist at the crime lab who is in all actuality a serial killer who keeps his victim's stomachs.

My money is on option two.

Serial killer or not, Greg had the ability to make me feel like I was a Greek goddess. The more time we spent together, the more comfortable I became with myself and with my body, as corny as that may sound. I'd never felt so human around any of my other boyfriends. Maybe it was because Greg didn't take himself seriously, and was always making an ass of himself for my entertainment. When we were leaving a restaurant one night, I saw an elderly women sitting by herself on a bench. I commented to Greg how sad she looked, and he immediately headed for the bench, sat down next to the woman, put his arm around her shoulders, and asked for her phone number. She declined, of course, but Greg knew it would make both me and the woman happy. Swoon.

Unfortunately, one miserable day at the crime lab would turn my idea of Greg the Stud into Greg the Dud.

Wednesday was always a slow day for messages and faxes, so I was excited whenever the phone would ring. I was just as eager to hand deliver files and notes to people, especially if it gave me the opportunity to see Greg. I had two more stops to go before reaching Greg's lab, but the place before it was somewhere I had never been before.

I knocked on the door of an unknown lab and let myself in when no one answered. A man was bent over a microscope in the far corner, and he looked up when he heard my footsteps. I had never talked to him personally, but I had heard other people in the lab call him Hodges, so I did the same.

"Hodges, I have a release form for you to sign," I said. It was so weird to be so casual with someone I had just met.

"Release for what?" he asked, scrunching up his little rat face.

"Some evidence for the Bristol case," I replied, and he started walking towards me. I suddenly felt nervous about his proximity, and backed up a bit into the wall. "I don't know the specifics." Grudgingly, he grabbed the paper from my hand and began reading it over, making faces of disbelief and disgust.

"Fine," he mumbled, pulling a pen out of his pocket and scratching out a signature. His presence was giving me the creeps, so I was more than relieved when he handed the paper back. But he wouldn't let go. He just kept grasping the sheet, studying my face as if he was trying to pinpoint who I was.

"You're the new receptionist?" he asked.

"Yes," I managed to say.

"You and Sanders, huh?" I was taken back by his mention of Greg, especially since I hadn't considered how many people really knew about, well, "us". I knew nothing about this man, not even his first name, yet he was completely aware of Greg and I's relationship.

"Yes," I spat out, a little displeased at his question. "Why?"

"You just seem like an intelligent girl," he replied, and let go of the paper. He walked back to his microscope, and I knew that he wanted to leave me confused and angry, but I wasn't going to let that happen.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I questioned, walking over to him.

"It's just that Greg usually goes for the dumb blonde supermodels. You know, those kind of girls." he smirked at the expression of my face. "I'm impressed with you, though. You seem to have kept him in a relationship longer than any other woman he's ever been with, and there have been a _lot_ of them."

I felt my heart drop through my stomach, and there was a hollowness in my body. Hodges's comment made me nervous, made me confused, made me pissed off. Why would Greg go for me when he could have any girl he wants? Why hadn't he told me about all of these other women? Was he just stringing me along? Was this some sick joke? I stomped out of the lab, thinking I would find Greg and tell him off; call him a pig in front of everyone. But my strength left me, and I turned into an empty hallway to find somewhere quiet to think. I slid down the wall and found myself sitting Indian style like I used to in Kindergarten, my face buried in my hands.

Hodges had only said one little comment, and for all I knew, it could have been a complete lie. Still, I let doubt get the best of me. My former boyfriends had never been that great, and I'm sure they would have cheated, too, if given the chance. Greg was too good for me; he was everything I asked for in a guy when I blew out my candles on a birthday cake or wished on the first star in the night sky. Damn me and my superstitions!

I needed to get out of the crime lab before someone found me sobbing like a baby. I couldn't let a little high school drama like this effect the integrity of my job or the impression my co-workers had of me. I moped back to my desk, and left a note for Missy, telling her that a family emergency had come up. Usually, I would say goodbye to Greg before leaving. But today, I just felt like vomiting at the thought of him and his lies. He was probably just like the boys who used to pick on me. I bet he told his buddies everything about us, and how dumb and gullible I was.

The only man I wanted in my life at that moment was Winnie the Pooh...and maybe that dinosaur on the Macaroni and Cheese box.


	7. Friar Tuck

Seven

I sat by the phone, waiting for Greg's call. I wasn't planning on answering the phone or anything; I was just going to give the receiver my nastiest stare and hope that the bad karma transferred over to Greg's phone line. But an hour went by, and he didn't call. And then another hour, and another. I was almost positive that he would have called when he noticed my sudden absence from work. Yet there I was, waiting for a phantom phone call that obviously wasn't coming. How dumb could I be?

I had to get out of that small cereal box that I call a home. The walls were closing in on me, and the conversation with Hodges earlier only put more pressure on my already stressed brain. It seemed that even reruns of "I Love Lucy" weren't going to help me on this particular night. I tried to think of all the places in Las Vegas I could go, but they all reminded me of Greg - even the supermarket. Desperate for some help, I phoned my landlord, a middle-aged, blonde haired woman who apparently thought hip huggers and tube tops were work appropriate.

"This is your luscious land lady speaking. How can I help?" she answered my call in a half- town-drunk, half-town-skank kind of voice. I cringed at the very thought of her mascara and how many coats she must have put on that morning.

"Hey there, Debbie," I sounded like a Mouseketeer compared to her worn, smokey voice. "It's Matilda, in 2C."

"Uh-huh," she mumbled, waiting for me to make my point.

"I was wondering if you knew of any good bars around here?" Well that was a dumb question.

"You're in Las Vegas, sweetheart. There's a bar on every corner," she said, irritation in her voice. "The problem is finding a _good_ bar."

"I just need somewhere that serves alcohol," I said, incredulous of my own words. I was never the kind of person to turn to booze when I had a problem. I was the kind of girl who would rather sit down, hold hands, and "talk" about our big scary problems. Well, sort of. The neon radiation and 24/7 party atmosphere of the big city must have finally gotten to me.

"Okay, okay," she laughed, hearing the urgency in my voice. "I'll call you a cab - send you somewhere good."

"Thank you so much," I gushed to her, but she had already hung up. Who had inhabited my body? Why was I so anxious to get together with Jack Daniels and his friends? I had no time to question my own motives - I would leave that for someone else to do. I frantically grabbed my purse, and headed downstairs, not having the slightest clue where my "wayward lady of the night" landlord was sending me.

Fifteen minutes and one smelly cab ride later, I was dropped off at a Cheers-esque bar. Unfortunately, I knew that _nobody_ would know my name. The entire place was filled with a thick cloud of smoke, and there were burly looking men in the back, playing pool and clanking beer glasses together. I steered clear of them, not wanting to get scurvy. I found an empty stool at the bar, and tried to observe the people around me without being too obvious. An old couple; a man with a long, scruffy beard; a few frat brothers. This is where the misfits must come to drink. How appropriate.

"Can I help you?" the petite bartender asked. She was wearing a revealing black top and tight leather pants, but she had a sweet face and blonde hair that could outshine any of the Brady sisters, even Cindy.

"Just a beer, please," I said, and she walked off to find me said beer.

It's amazing how one bottle can turn into five, because before long, my speech was slurring and the walls were blurring I didn't remember ordering that many beers. I don't even like beer. But oh yeah....there were the four shots. Four or five? Who cares?! They're like the same number, anyway....they both start with "F". What a weird letter..."F"....why can't "F" be more like...."M"?

I had lost all of my better judgement, and was stumbling back and forth through the bar, chatting up the pirates in the back about Barbra Streisand, and flirting with the frat boys in the front. Being completely intoxicated, I thought that one of the college guys was totally into me; I think he even tried to grab my chest. It didn't take long for his goofy friends to disappear and for me and Mr. Lover Boy to be alone, snuggled into a corner in a far off booth.

"What did you say your name was?" he asked, slurring the end of every word. He yelled to the bartender to bring us more drinks.

"Matty..." I managed to say. Matilda was too many syllables for a drunk to even fathom. When the freshly opened bottles arrived, my new guy friend was anxious for me to drink more, practically shoving the bottle down my throat.

"Whoa...." I said. "I've had....a lot...."

"Me, too." he replied, slamming his own beer back down on the table. "Let's go." he grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the booth. Standing up so suddenly made my head spin, and I fell into his back to catch myself from falling. I heard him laughing, so I started to do the same. I was a very giddy drunk.

Out on the street, the bright lights burned and merged into one giant ball of fire, burning out my retinas. I heard my date hail a cab, and then, for the first time in a long time, everything went completely quiet. I could hear this guy breathing down my neck as he waited for some form of transportation. I could hear the slot machines in nearby casinos being abused over and over again until they produced a winner. I could hear someone's footsteps approach behind us, and the sound of a familiar voice.

By this point, I had given up on trying to look composed and slumped down to the ground, resting my head on the brick exterior of the bar. It was only then that I noticed that my frat boy support unit had walked off to talk to this familiar voice. I couldn't make out either of their faces; I could barely hear what they were saying. Soon, though, they were shouting at each other, and there was frantic movement everywhere, like they were throwing punches at each other. I crunched my body in a tight ball, trying to protect myself from what I thought was the Apocalypse. The feeling of these two giant men around me made me feel weaker and weaker by the second, and I knew I was going to faint.

Finally, the tiny war on the sidewalk stopped and I felt someone grab my hands and pull me up. I fell against his body, and I felt his hand wrap tightly around my waist, trying to prevent me from falling. My eyelids became heavy, my legs gave out from under my weight, and I lost all consciousness.


	8. There's Something About Matilda

Eight

The smell of clean cotton sheets. The tweeting of birds outside an open window. The feel of a wet snout on your face.

Wet snout?! I had dated some gross men in my life, but this took the cake.

Actually, the owner of the wet nose wasn't human: it was Henry, wagging his tail and sniffing me curiously. I grinned at the dog's dopey expression despite my massive headache, and felt happy for a moment. Nothing could put me in a good mood like a dog could. But then I got over my little love fest with the canine and better examined my surroundings. This wasn't my bed, or my apartment, and Henry certainly wasn't my dog. I sat straight up, panicing about last night's events. What had happened? Where had I gone? Why did this bed have cowboy sheets?

Before I could find the answers to my questions, a soft knock came at the door. I was pretty sure I hadn't been abducted by a lunatic serial killer or anything, unless murderers these days were going to finishing schools.

"Yeah?" I tried to shout out, but my throat was dry and scratchy like a wool blanket. Greg came in, already dressed in jeans and one of his many "witty sayings" t-shirts. He had even done his hair already – I think.

"Hey," he said shyly, sitting on the end of the bed. Out of instinct, I pulled the bed sheets over my chest, hiding behind them like a 5-year-old. "How ya feelin'?"

"I'd feel a lot better if I knew what was going on," I said, sounding bitchy as ever. I couldn't help it. I was sitting in Greg's bed with a gigantic hangover and my clothes from last night still on.

"You don't remember anything, do you?" he asked, and that's when I noticed the huge red gash above his lip.

"Greg, what happened?" I was suddenly over my body issues, crawling out of the sheets and over to Greg. I tried to touch the scratch with my thumb, but he pulled away.

"I got in a huge fight with your new boyfriend," he replied, slight anger in his voice. Now I _really_ needed an explanation. Greg turned towards me with a mixture of confusion and disbelief on his face. "What happened to you yesterday? I looked everywhere for you after work. And then I find you leaving some seedy bar with a frat boy. Where were you going?"

I had never seen Greg act this way before, maybe because I had never given him a reason to. I felt like he was interrogating me, and that really pushed me over the edge. Who was he to place all of the blame on me when he was just as guilty?

"Who the hell do you think you are?!" I asked, stumbling out of bed and rising to my feet. "If you can have tons of girlfriends at one time, why can't I do the same with men?! You don't tell me what to do!" God, I sounded like a white trash princess on "Cops". Now if only Greg could be drinking beer in nothing but his underwear and a wife beater.

"Tons of girlfriends?" he asked, putting on one hell of a show. "What are you talking about?!"

"Don't act so innocent," I yelled, trying to find my shoes under the bed. I caught a quick glance of myself in a mirror and realized that my hair was doing the "Something About Mary" thing. I didn't even want to think about how it got that way. "Hodges told me everything."

"Hodges?!" he stood up to his full height now, and I was reminded of just how tall he was. I was like a Smurf yelling at the Jolly Green Giant. "Matilda, you can't believe anything Hodges says. The guy hates me!"

"Yeah, okay," I wasn't taking any more crap than I had to. I was frantic, pacing the room like a madwoman. Greg grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me towards him, his face inches from my own.  
"Matilda, you've got to believe me," he said, and his tone was suddenly that of the Greg I had first met so many months ago. He was being sincere. "Hodges has had it out for me forever. We hate each other. He's completely jealous of me – of us."

I felt my eyes filling with tears, and Greg's face went blurry in front of me. I knew he was telling the truth. In all of our time together, Greg had never once lied to me. Why was I so stupid? Why did I jeopardize the best thing that had ever happened to me?

"I'm so sorry, Greg," I apologized, my face screwing up into the dreaded "ugly cry". "I've just never had something as good as us. I guess I thought it was too good to be true, so I believed Hodges. I believed that we wouldn't last that long."

I buried my head into his chest, and I felt him wrap his long arms around my body, putting one hand on the back of my head. He whispered in my ear, trying to comfort me.

"Can you forgive me?" I asked, pulling my wet face away from his body. He laughed at my sorry expression, wiping tears and last nights mascara off of my cheeks with his thumb.

"Okay," he replied. "But only if you promise to break up with King Keg from the frat house."


	9. Beans: The Mood Killer

Nine

Over a cup of Greg's signature Blue Hawaiian coffee, he explained the details of last night. Apparently, Grissom had kept him at work later than he planned to be there, analyzing DNA, or testing a blood sample, or playing with some sperm. Something like that. When he finally got the chance to call me, I, of course, didn't answer. I was set sailing with Captain Jack Sparrow and the rest of his lowly crew, so to speak. Eventually, Greg got worried and came over to my apartment. If it hadn't been for my overly friendly land lady, Greg would have never been able to find me.

I sat at the kitchen table after Greg finished his tale, watching the steam rise up from my untouched coffee. I wasn't much for the stuff – I just liked to smell it (and use it to wash down my six Aspirin). I ran my fingers through my hair, and that's when I felt the giant knot that I had seen earlier in the mirror. If I didn't comb it out soon, a small family of robins would use it as a nest.

"Greg," I began, not knowing what I was going to really ask. "Did we...well, you know....?" I trailed off, and let Greg fill in the blanks. He sat across from me at the table, a blank expression on his face. For a scientist, he was kind of clueless.

"Did we....have sex?" he finally finished my question. I bit my lower lip and nodded 'yes'. This was almost as uncomfortable as a sex talk with my mom. "No, we didn't," he answered.

I let out a sign of relief, knowing that there was no foreign substance in my hair. Still, Greg didn't seem as relieved. He took another long drink of his coffee, never taking his eyes off of me; studying me like a specimen. I knew he was bothered by my elation over our intercourse-free evening.

"I think you would remember a night with me," he boasted, sitting up straight and proud. I laughed a little, if only to humor him. I knew he was just trying to brush off any serious feelings he may have had. "Did _you_ have sex last night?"

"Greg, _no_," I said, straightening out my back and looking him squarely in the eye. I had to let him know that I was being honest. "I was just wondering, that's all."

"Would you like to have sex _tonight_?" he asked, getting a mischevious look on his smug little face. Despite all of his best efforts to joke around, I knew that Greg's intentions were completely genuine.

Ever since the two of us had been intimate together, Greg had been anxious to do the old wham, bam, thank you ma'm. He _is_ a 20-something guy, so I couldn't really blame him. But there was always something nagging me; something telling me that if I gave in too soon, he would throw me out like an empty bottle of hair gel (something that Greg, no doubt, does a lot). So I became a prude of sorts. Every time he would try to unbutton my shirt, I would guide his hands up to my hair. Or when he would walk his fingers up my thighs and under my skirt, I would say the most unattractive, mood spoiling thing I could think of, like, "do beans give you major gas, or is that just me?" How romantic.

"I don't think so, Greggo," I answered, standing up to go to the bathroom but plopping right back down into the chair. Hm....maybe I needed a little more time to regain my strength.

"Okay, okay, I'll reason with you," he began, going in to insanely elaborate hand gestures. "The cheerleader outfit is a bit much, but at least consider the naughty nurse." He smirked at his own comic genius, and I had to do the same.

"Greg, when we have sex, _if_ we have sex, it's not going to involve any sort of costumes," He raised his eyebrows at the 'if' part.

"Yeah, we're just going to take them off anyway," he said, grinning from ear to ear. I reached across the table to punch him on the arm, and he grabbed my hand, covering it in kisses like a goofy Frenchman.

Greg had no idea that his patience would pay off on one rainy Las Vegas night.


	10. Bright Blue Cupcakes

Ten

Some days, I wish I was the corpse on the examining table instead of the girl behind the reception desk. This was one of those days. The phone had been ringing off the hook since I had come in that morning, only it wasn't hundreds of different people calling. It was one jackass from the DA's office who wouldn't leave me alone. I guess he figured that if he hung up, waited two minutes, and then called again, I would have the answer to a question he had asked that I didn't have earlier. People can be so stupid.

On top of that, Missy was insisting that I go out with her 34-year-old son, James, who still lived with her at home. He was a nice boy, so she claimed, but he had trouble getting out and socializing with women. I knew his type before she even showed me the picture: overweight, awkward, glasses, "Star Trek" t-shirt, the works. I tried telling Missy over and over again that I wasn't exactly available, but she didn't want to take the relationship between Greg and I seriously.

"You need a dependable man," she said. "Someone who won't leave you for a better looking woman." I was too tired and annoyed to even come up with a witty comeback. To be blunt, she thought that Greg was too good-looking for me. Ah, to be chubby in a skinny world.

The only silver lining in my day of dark clouds was the cupcake that I found waiting for me on my desk when I got back from the copy machine. It was drenched in bright blue frosting, like it was the work of an overzealous 8-year-old chef. A small piece of paper sat next to it with a message written in Greg's chicken scratch: _A sweet for my sweet_. I could hear his dopey voice saying it in my head, and I smiled to myself, if only for a moment. It was Missy who again rained on my parade.

"You're not going to eat that, are you?" she asked, picking up the cupcake and examining it like it was a three headed ladybug. I snatched it out of her hand, and bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to explode.

"No, Missy," I said through clinched teeth. "I was going to preserve it for future generations." My humor was lost on her, and she could only stare at me as I sat back down at my constricting desk. How many more hours until quitting time? Too many.

I didn't want to go back to my ratty apartment after work, so I decided to head over to Greg's place. I knew that his shift wasn't over yet, so I figured I could use his hidden spare key to sneak inside and wait for him. Besides, I owed him a surprise after my little blue desert today. Unfortunately, Cornelius, my car, had other plans.

As I turned the corner on a narrow street about six blocks from Greg's building, Corny started to sputter and jerk violently like he had a hacking cough. Being the loving owner that I am, I freaked out and started pounding on the dashboard with my fist (I knew it wouldn't do any good, but hey, why do people hit their computer monitors when their frozen?). Still, my pounding couldn't help, and the tiny car made one final lunge forward before dying completely. I sat behind the wheel for a second, in a sort of "why me?" daze. Was God punishing me for stealing those crackers from a grocery store when I was 10? I knew never to mess with another man's food.

As a modern woman of the 21st century, I should have had a cell phone with me. But since luck wasn't on my side that day, I had left my phone, along with my other work related items, at home. I weighed my options, and concluded that I could either walk my butt to Greg's apartment, or ask one of the surrounding residents to let me use their phone. Looking at the houses to my left and right, I realized that I was in the Las Vegas ghetto. I had a better chance of jumper cables falling from the sky than summoning the courage to talk to a stranger who had a pit bull in their front yard. Walking it was.

Again, the big man upstairs saw fit to punish me further, and he unleashed a brutal downpour of rain on me. I stopped in my tracks when I felt the first big drop hit my head, but kept on going. At that point, I had given up on trying to repair this day. I walked along the road for what seemed like hours, dodging cars and mud puddles as my hair became a stringy, wet mess. Never in my life had I been as relieved as I was when I got to Greg's apartment building. Climbing the stairs to his floor, I could hear the water in my shoes squeaking and squishing. I looked like I had just fallen into the dolphin tank at Sea World – before it was cleaned. I didn't even bother to pretty myself up before ringing the doorbell.


	11. Yes, Please

This chapter may come off as racy to some people, but when I was writing this, I tried to make it tasteful and romantic, not trashy. Consider yourself warned.

Eleven

I could hear Henry barking furiously on the other side of the door, and Greg stumbling around. So much for coming over early and surprising him. It had taken me so long to walk to his place, he had the time to come home from work, shower, and change clothes. Pathetic, huh?

"Hey," he said when he opened the door, his face brightening at the sight of me for only a few seconds before falling into a grim frown. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Noah didn't have anymore room on the Arc," I answered, pushing myself past him and flopping down on the couch.

"That's leather!" he screeched, pulling me up before I left a giant wet impression of my body.

"Sorry," I replied half heartedly, running my fingers through my damp hair. "I've just had a really crappy day."

"I can tell," he said, pulling me close to him and planting a kiss on my forehead. "What happened?"

"I'm afraid Cornelius is dead," I tried to mock the sorrow of a widow at her rich, fat, dead husband's funeral. Greg gasped, letting go of me and racing over to the kitchen table to get his car keys.

"There's not a moment to spare!" he declared in his best super hero voice. "We must find the victim and bring him back to life!" I laughed slightly, but grabbed Greg's arm before he could reach the door.

"Don't worry about it, Greg," I said, not really caring about the car myself. I felt like the entire world was giving up on me that day; the last thing I was worried about was some hunk of metal that didn't even function anymore. I just needed some affection, some support, from a living, breathing being. "Do you have some clothes I can wear?"

He raised his eyebrows and threw his keys down on the counter, completely forgetting about the poor little car. I followed him into his bedroom as he rummaged through dresser drawers, pulling out t-shirts and scrub pants.

"Um, Greg," I began, picking up some of the shirts and holding them up to my body to compare. "These aren't going to fit me." He looked up from his crouched position.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because of my boobs," I pointed out, as if he hadn't noticed them before. All of his t-shirts were cut for boys, but _I_ certainly wasn't shaped like a flat piece of cardboard. Again, a dangerous grin crept onto his face.

"Well, maybe you should just wear nothing at all," he said. I laughed at his endless attempts to get me naked and into his bed, but when I saw the way he was staring at me, I stopped thinking it was a joke. His face became completely serious, and he gave me the look of a tiger watching its prey, waiting for the right moment to advance. It was carnivorous. Greg wanted me, and I wanted him. I deserved to be happy like this. Why didn't I just go for it?

We inched our bodies closer together before we were practically standing on top of each other. We were like conjoined twins, connected by our eyes. We couldn't break the other's gaze. He leaned in and kissed me on the mouth. I let him part my lips and guide his tongue inside, feeling an almost foreign sensation deep down inside of my body. His hands began to roam around, and before long, he was peeling off layers of my moist clothing; my coat, my shirt, my skirt. I pulled his t-shirt over his head, and for a moment, I felt my entire body tense up. I couldn't look at him in the face; I could only stare at his stomach and his happy trail, leading down below his belt. His stomach was heaving in and out from his breathing. He pulled my head up with his hands, and again, we were locking eyes.

"It's okay," he whispered. I didn't know what he meant exactly, and neither did he, but it made me feel a world better. For so long, I had denied both Greg and myself this pleasure. I was unsure if I should have done it at all. Yet now that I was here, in the moment, the feelings of euphoria and elation were almost too much to handle. Greg could sense that in my face and my body; I didn't even have to voice my fears. That's when I knew that this was right.

He covered my neck and chest in kisses, and I didn't try to stop him when he reached for the clasp of my bra. He couldn't undo the closure, and I giggled, realizing that even when it came to sex, Greg couldn't always be serious. Eventually, I helped him out, and let my bra fall to the ground with such an amazing feeling of liberation. He buried his head between my breasts, and I felt his lips grazing my skin, kissing and nibbling. We stumbled over to the bed like a contestant in a three legged race, and I sat down on the edge, letting Greg's legs straddle mine as I undid his belt and the buttons and zipper of his jeans.

I inched myself back onto the bed, and let Greg crawl on top of me in nothing but his boxers. He tried to balance his weight on his arms, but I pushed at his elbows and let him fall into me, our bare chests pressed up against each other. We pulled the sheets of the unmade bed over ourselves before stripping entirely, and that's when I let Greg do what he had been begging to do ever since we met. I felt a slight pressure between my legs, and then the most amazing pleasure I had ever experienced. Greg and I collectively let out a tiny gasp, and I felt him thrusting his hips against mine. Sweat began to drip from his forehead onto me, and as we reached the climax, I couldn't help but moan. I bit the side of his face and dug my nails into the skin on his back, trying not to scream.

When it was all over, Greg stayed on top of me for a moment, looking deep into my eyes and smiling, wiping the sweat off of my face. Eventually, he climbed off and fell into the bed next to me, burying his face against the side of my chest as I wrapped my arm around his warm body. We fell asleep just like that, the room still a dizzying mess of wet clothes and the smell of sex.

We didn't use a condom.


	12. Rainy Daze

Twelve

I woke up in a daze, not quite sure of where I was or what I had done the night before. The room around me was dark aside from the moonlight pouring into the window, and a lifeless body was lying next to me, their arm draped around my chest. Well, maybe it wasn't lifeless. I watched the figure calmly breathe and shift a little, and remembered that it was Greg. I studied his figure, tracing over the back of his neck, his shoulders, his lower back, all with my eyes. I felt the skin on his arm pressed against my breasts, almost like he was subconsciously trying to prevent exposure on my part. The protective boyfriend.

I lifted my head off of the pillow and looked around the room. There were no lights on, no fluorescent green numbers blinking on the alarm clock on the nightstand, no whirling from the ceiling fan. The rain was still hammering down on the roof, with the occasional clap of startling thunder. The storm must have killed the electricity.

Stumbling out of the bed, I felt around on the floor for one of the many t-shirts that Greg had pulled out of his dresser earlier. Finding the largest one I could, I pulled the shirt over my head and stuck my elbows into the bottom, trying to stretch out the fabric to make it longer. The cloth didn't want to budge, so I sifted through another of Greg's drawers until I found...well....Greg's drawers. Actually, an oversized pair of worn and tattered scrub pants. I pulled the pants on and quietly exited the bedroom.

Henry was waiting for me in the living room, his tail wagging feverishly and his ears perked up. He was desperate to go outside; I could tell that he knew not to go to the bathroom in the apartment. Greg must have laid down the law after that last peeing incident. I saw no harm in taking him out, even if we were in the middle of a monsoon. I couldn't let the poor dog just sit there and suffer.

Outside, the rainfall got heavier with each passing minute. It was nearly impossible to see 10 feet in front of yourself. I stood under an awning on the building, tightly grasping Henry's leash. I didn't want him to wander too far; I just wanted him to do his business and be quick about it. Like all dogs, though, Henry had different plans. He couldn't urinate in any ordinary patch of grass. No, no, _his_ patch of grass had to be meticulously sought after and tested.

"Come on, Henry," I moaned, more to myself. The air was cold and moist, and the thin layers of Greg's clothing were offering no protection from the extreme temperature drop, especially in the chest area, if you know what I mean.

I waited a little while longer, looking around to make sure none of Greg's neighbors saw me in this state. In the distance, I thought I saw a dark figure, swaying back and forth. It was probably nothing more than my imagination, telling me that the Boogie Man was coming after me. Still, the figure seemed to be inching closer, and through the layers of rain, I could see definition in its appearance. His appearance, actually. He was dressed in all black with a hood pulled over his head. He walked in a rigid manner, like there was something wrong with his legs. He seemed to be dragging the left one. The nearer he got to Henry and I, the more frightened I became. I didn't like his mannerisms or his demeanor. And what kind of guy walks around cloaked in darkness in the middle of a rainy night (with the exception of Batman)?

And that's when I saw it. The man was close enough to me now that I could see tiny details I hadn't noticed before. I stood frozen as he pulled open his coat and revealed a human head he was holding, bloody and bruised. I felt saliva building up in the back of my throat, and my stomach churned with vomit. It was like a car accident: I was disgusted by it, but I couldn't look away. The head was brutally chopped off at the neck, with the nerves and veins still dangling there. The eyes were partially closed, and the mouth hung open as if in mid-scream.

The man came still closer, and that's when I regained my composure and awareness. Tightening my grip on Henry's leash, I screamed and ran like hell back to Greg's apartment, the dog right beside me, panting and jumping like it was a game. I had never been so scared in my entire life.


	13. HoHoNo

Thirteen

I frantically pounded on the door to Greg's apartment, not having a key to get in. I heard him rustling around on the other side of the door before it finally opened and I made a mad dash inside, slamming it shut behind the dog and I. Greg was still half asleep, half dressed, and confused as ever.

"What the hell is going on?" he mumbled, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"There's…a….man…outside….dog……rain…..head," I was a mess, still reeling from what I had seen earlier. The words came out of my mouth as quickly as the images replayed in my head.

"Whoa, Matilda," Greg said, trying to calm me down like a rancher to an excited horse. "What's wrong?"

I bit my lip and let my mind sort itself out. That's when everything became clearer: Greg's apartment, my soaking wet clothing (his clothing, actually), Henry, who was oblivious to the night's events. How could I tell Greg what had happened without sounding like an escapee from the funny farm? That's really something you want to discover _before_ you sleep with a girl.

"Greg," I started slowly. "I took Henry outside, and there was a man…"

"What man?" he interrupted, looking concerned. "What did he do to you?"

"Greg, he had a head." Maybe I should have reworded that. Greg stared at me for a moment, making sure that he had just correctly heard what I had said.

"Well, Matilda, I'd be a little concerned if he _didn't_ have a head," he joked.

"No, no, that's not what I mean," I whined. "He was carrying a human head. He opened up his coat and pulled out the head. I saw it – I know it was real."

Greg stood there in his boxers, pondering what I had just told him. He was somewhere between fear and disbelief. I hoped, prayed even, that he would believe me. I didn't know how else I could prove this to Greg. I had never been completely serious before. Why would I start now? Greg examined me in my sorry state, my hair plastered to my face and the clothes sticking to my skin. I was panting like I had just ran a 12 mile race, when in all actuality, I had only gone from downstairs to upstairs (sad, huh?).

"Are you sure you saw this guy?" he asked, hesitating to believe me.

"Greg, I know this sounds crazy," I reasoned with him. "But I know what I saw. I wouldn't lie about something like this." Again, Greg fell silent and I felt like every passing second was another judgment he was making about me under faulty circumstances.

A heavy and evasive knock came at the door, making both of us jump. I backed away, thinking that my ghoul was just on the other side. Greg peered through the peep hole before opening the door. His landlord, a heavyset man resembling Santa Claus, stood under an open rainbow umbrella.

"Is everything okay with you kids?" he asked like a loving grandparent. Why couldn't I have a landlord like that? Debbie, my luscious land lady, was like the aunt who always got drunk on Christmas and stripped on the dining room table to "Jingle Bells". Yuck.

"Yeah, we're fine," Greg answered for both of us. "Why?"

"I thought I heard a scream, so I looked out my window and saw your friend running for her life," he motioned in my direction, and I felt my cheeks burning a deep red. "I can't sleep sometimes, so I stay up and watch 'Jeopardy'," he said, trying to explain his nocturnal habits.

Greg looked in my direction, still deciphering fact from fiction in his head. Saint Nicholas had backed up my story, but how reliable could an elderly, sleep deprived man be? Just then, Greg's cell phone rang, and Henry began barking like there was no tomorrow. Greg quieted him and answered the phone, not even using a witty greeting this time like, "Home of the Whopper. What's your beef?".

"Hello?" he said. He paused to let the unknown voice on the other end of the line speak, and then replied. "Okay, okay, I'll be right there." More talking from the other person before Greg turned to stare at me. I knew the discussion had turned to me, and I got a nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach. "I'll bring her, too." He said before hanging up. I didn't even give him time to explain.

"Who was that?" I asked, oblivious to Greg's landlord who was still standing in the doorway.

"That was Grissom," he replied. "He wants to see both of us – _now_."


	14. Love Stinks

Fourteen

The sun was barely peaking out from the horizon when we arrived at the lab, the rain still pounding down on Las Vegas. Greg said that Grissom's tone had sounded urgent, so we didn't really have much time to fancy ourselves up. My clothes were wrinkled and my makeup was smudged, and to be honest, I didn't care.

I couldn't figure out what had sparked Grissom's sudden interest in Greg and I. The past hour or so had been such a blur, between the head, the landlord, the call to come to work ASAP. I tried to use logic to explain all of the night's events, but nothing was fitting together. The pieces were all there – they just belonged to different puzzles.

The lab itself was a reflection of the sorry weather. The interior décor had always been drab and minimal, but now, it took on a completely new shade of gloom. The walls were grey and stark, and the overhead lighting was harsh and sterile. But that was nothing compared to the faces of the employees. Each person looked like they belonged in a funeral procession, their expressions almost too grim to comprehend. Maybe the crime lab had always been like this, and I had been too absorbed in my own little world to notice. Or maybe something was seriously wrong.

I followed Greg into a large interrogation room where Warrick, Nick and Sara were already seated around a silver table. They acknowledged our presence, but couldn't seem to find any enthusiasm at our arrival. Sara didn't even look me in the eye when she greeted me; no wide, gap-toothed grin, not even a smirk. Greg took the last empty chair and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot in the middle of the table. Ordinarily, I'm sure he would have offered me the seat, but Greg had been as out of it as I had been. He didn't say a single word for the entire drive to the lab, even when we passed a strip club and I expected him to make a crude joke. I stood off in the corner, wrapping my arms around my body as if that would protect me from the horrors of the world. I still felt like an outsider around these people. They were the popular kids at the prom, and I was the girl who stood against the back wall, waiting for a boy to ask me to dance. An eternal wallflower.

Grissom came stomping into the room, his obligatory manila folder tucked under his arm. He, too, had a desolate look, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Who knows what this is?" Grissom asked, pulling a small rusted scalpel out of his pocket. The professor waited for his students to answer.

"A scalpel," everyone said in unison.

"Right," Grissom declared, slamming the instrument down on the table. "Does it look familiar to anyone?" Everyone looked at each other, guilty expressions on the faces on the innocent. If this was about somebody not washing their tools, I was certainly not the one to blame.

"You called us down here about a dirty scalpel?" Nick asked in disbelief.

"No, Nick," Grissom replied, tilting his head in an inquisitive manner. "I called you down here because 12 years ago, there were a series of murders in the Las Vegas area. Three women, all of similar appearance, were kidnapped, brutally raped, murdered and beheaded by the same man." A silence fell over the room, either out of fear or anticipation.

"What does the scalpel have to do with it?" Warrick asked.

"The murderer used this very instrument to behead the women," Grissom answered matter-of-factly, picking up the tool and running his thumb over the dull blade. "We found his weapon of choice, but we never found _him_."

"Wait a second," Sara joined the conversation. "Is it even physically possible to behead someone with just a scalpel?"

"Yeah," Greg replied for Grissom. "It just takes a lot of sawing." I looked at Greg's face and the faces of the others, and I knew they were visualizing the gruesome details of such a murder. I couldn't even begin to do the same: once I got past the skin, the inner workings of a human body were a tangle of veins, bones, and oddly-shaped organs. I couldn't decipher one thing from the next.

"Anyway," Grissom continued. "The killer had a favorite type of victim. She would be in her mid-20s, medium build, dark hair, and pale skin. The profile was foolproof every time." A golf ball sized lump developed in my throat. I wondered if anyone else in the room had noticed that Grissom had just described my outer appearance to a T. "He had a pattern of the days on which he would kill, too. Every February 14th, for three years in a row." February 14th was two days away.

"So he was like the 'Valentine's Day Killer'?" Nick asked. The name alone peaked his interest.

"No dumb names, Nick," Grissom stated firmly, making sure everyone else got the message, too. "Let the Feds commercialize this if they want to. That's not our job." Nick leaned back in his chair, feeling slightly defeated.

"_This_?" Sara questioned. "I thought you said the murders happened 12 years ago?"

"They did," Grissom quickly responded, reassuring his team that he had not made a mistake. "But they may be happening again."

"What do you mean?" Sara asked, leaning heavily on the table.

"Well," Grissom began, clearing his throat and wording his explanation in his head. "The crime lab received a letter stating that there was going to be another murder under the same circumstances on this February 14th. It could be a hoax, or someone posing as the killer, but that's very unlikely. When these crimes happened, it got little media coverage; it didn't even have a cult following. We suspect the same man has returned, possibly in hopes of gaining the fame that he was denied."

I let the story register in my mind. It was like the plot of a movie: an obsessed serial killer who returns from the grave (or in this case, retirement) to get revenge (or fame). I understood the significance of the others being there. Warrick, Nick and Sara were all certified CSIs who would probably be working on the case under Grissom's supervision. And Greg had just finished his training, meaning that this could be one of his first real cases out in the field. Still, I couldn't quite place where I fit in. Why did Grissom need to speak to a humble receptionist about some savage killings? Greg read my mind and asked the question for me.

"So why is Matilda here?" Five faces turned towards me, and I felt them passing countless judgments on me. Grissom's face was the worst. Instead of his customary distant stare, he had a look of sadness in his eyes. He again cleared his throat and hesitantly answered the question.

"Because she's his next victim."


	15. Nurse Greg

Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review my story. Really, it means a lot to me. Just to clarify, if I have offended anyone by my constant mentions of Matilda and her weight, that was not my intention. I'm just trying to point out that Matilda isn't the svelte supermodel type without a care in the world. She has a normal body, and the same insecurities as every other woman in her situation. It isn't her appearance or wealth that won over Greg: it was her personality. If anything, I want to empower curvier girls everywhere, because quite frankly, I am one myself.

Fifteen

I woke up to the sound of quiet humming, like a ceiling fan slowly turning overhead. Only, it wasn't a fan that I was hearing: it was lab equipment. High tech gear and gigantic machines, all with their own equally important duties in solving crimes. I listened a little while longer, wondering when I had installed DNA readers in my apartment. That's when I realized that I wasn't in my apartment at all. I was in the crime lab, spread out on a cot like a sick 8th grader in the school nurse's office. I tried to open my eyes, but the light burned at my retinas and blurred my vision. I felt a presence hovering over me, and the scent of a woman's unidentifiable perfume.

"Matilda?" I heard Sara's voice beckoning me back to complete consciousness. She repeated my name and lightly shook my shoulder until I opened my eyelids just enough to see her face, the light making a sort of halo around her head. "Hi," she finally said.

"What hap…?" I tried to ask Sara for an explanation, but my words became slurred. I could form the sentences in my head, but I couldn't transmit them out of my mouth. Each word made me feel even more light headed. Luckily, Sara was the lab's resident mind reader.

"You fainted, that's all," she explained, answering my unasked question. "You hit your head, but it's just a little bump. You should be fine." I didn't even realize the severity of the pain in my forehead until she mentioned it. I had felt a sort of uncomfortable throbbing on my skin, but I thought that I was just hallucinating pain, if that's possible. But the more I paid attention to it, the worse it got.

"Ice….?!" I managed to blurt out. Sara was quick to grab a chilly blue icepack that was sitting on the counter. She sat down next to me and pressed the pack against my head, the coldness sending goosebumps down my entire body. I had never been as grateful to someone as I was to Sara at that moment.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Greg come in the room, his head bobbing along with his customary gallop. I immediately recognized his scent: a mixture of woodsy cologne and his own natural smell. I let my nose take in the aroma, and felt the pain in my head slowly evaporate away. Greg had that effect on me.

"I can do that," Greg said, snatching the blue icepack out of Sara's grip and tossing it up in the air like a tennis ball. The aching came back almost instantly, and I winced just loud enough for the both of them to hear. Greg had _that_ effect on me, too.

"Just don't make it worse, Greg," Sara warned, standing up and leaving the two of us alone. He playfully shrugged his shoulders and sat down where Sara had been, taking over her duties as nurse.

"You seem to be feeling better," I whispered, his face inches from my own as he held my icy compress in place.

"What do you mean?" he asked, looking like a confused puppy dog. "You're the one that collapsed."

"Earlier," I began to explain. "You were acting weird, like you were mad at the world or something. You weren't yourself." He thought about my comment for a moment and then let a sly smile spread across his lips.

"I was just worried," he finally replied.

"Worried about what?" I questioned him further, taking the icepack from his hand and holding it in position myself. Greg was pressing down so hard, it felt like he was trying to break through to the next dimension.

"You! First you see the Boogie man outside my apartment building, and then Grissom calls us in and drops a bomb. How am I supposed to feel?" His tone became serious. He was being completely sincere and honest, and my heart ached for him. I didn't mean to put that kind of pressure on him.

I meant to apologize, but my thoughts got the best of me. I had forgotten all about the threat on my life. I suppose that's what had made me keel over in the first place. I didn't even know where to begin, what with all of the unanswered questions I still had. Why would a serial killer come after me? What could I offer him that other women couldn't? This couldn't be about money – I had about $7 in my savings account. And it couldn't have been about looks – the guy had his pick of all the busty, botoxed blondes in Vegas. Nothing made sense anymore.

"So why are you so happy now?" I asked, turning my attention back to Greg.

"Because, despite the fact that some psycho is after you," he began, and I rolled my eyes at his choice to words. How comforting. "I am 100 percent confident in the lab's ability to hunt this guy down so that I may _personally_ kick his ass." He finished his explanation with a cocky grin on his face and a new height to his posture.

"But Greg," I said. "The lab finds the guy _after_ he's committed the crime." Greg's smile fell like a sack of bricks off the Empire State Building as my comment registered in his mind. He stumbled for words.

"Yeah, well, the Las Vegas police force is pretty good at their job, too."

I smiled at my dopey boyfriend, despite everything that was going on around us. My mind was plagued with worries, but I didn't think about the problems in my near future. Maybe it was the nasty injury on my head that made me so carefree, or maybe it was Greg, and how optimistic he was about finding the murderer. For a few minutes, I laid there on my cozy cot, circa 1984, stuck in the little world that Greg and I had created for ourselves. Nothing could hurt me. I was invincible as long as I had him…and his "Employee of the Month" t-shirt.


	16. A Date with Grissom

Sixteen

Grissom was quick to question me on the events of the night before. Greg had apparently filled the boss man in on our activities (minus the sex), but Grissom needed to hear the details from me. When I found the strength to stand up again, I was whisked away to his office, dreading my inevitable interrogation.

I had been in Grissom's office before, but I had never had the chance to really study the surroundings. As I sat waiting for him, I looked around the dark and secluded room. Everyone else in the crime lab had to interact with other people at every moment; there was no such thing as privacy in this place. Grissom, however, was an exceptional to the rule. From what Sara had told me, Gil would rather be with his insects than with other people, and he had plenty of bugs to keep him company. Glass jars lined the shelves and sat atop the desk, all containing creepy crawlers. Some were dead, preserved in a light green goop. Others were still alive, desperately trying to climb to the top of their jars and escape, only to fall back down to the bottom. Was there such a thing as insect cruelty?

When Grissom finally came in, he was quick to start the questioning. No sentimental greeting; no small talk. He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses clean with a cloth before putting them back on to begin.

"Greg tells me you saw a man outside his apartment?" he asked. I nodded, suddenly overtaken by shyness. I had grown used to the other co-workers, but Grissom was still intimidating; he was still a puzzle that I hadn't been able to figure out. "Do you want to tell me about him?"

"He was dressed in dark clothes, with the hood of his coat up," Grissom wrote down each of my words with great intensity, not even looking up to give me a sign that he was listening. "He just stood there for a minute, staring at me. I mean, I couldn't see his eyes, but he was facing me. He was just a few feet from me. Then he pulled the head out from his jacket."

"And then what did you do?" he inquired. What did he think I did? Stayed there and played patty-cake with him?

"I ran back to Greg's apartment." I replied. I figured that Grissom knew about the relationship between Greg and I and the level it had reached.

"Can you tell me anything about the head? The hair color? The gender? Anything?" I considered his question for a moment and realized that I really couldn't remember any physical traits about the severed head. Whatever I had seen earlier had been erased from my mind completely.

"No, sir," I answered, ashamed of how little help I could offer. "I don't remember anything about it."

"Okay," he began, finally looking up from his report. "Thank you for your time."

"Wait, that's it?" I asked. I hadn't been taking the case as seriously as a girl in my situation should have been, but that was only because I figured Grissom and the rest of the team were devoting all of their effort to it. But if he wasn't even going to take the time to question me, why would he take the time to help me instead of other victims? He was clearly surprised by my question, not expecting to be the one put under a microscope.

"Unless there's something else you'd like to share with me." He said. I racked my brain for any other bits and pieces that I could tell him, but my mind failed me once again. The bump I had sustained from the fall must have given me temporary brain fart. I shook my head "no", but I wasn't going to let this be the end of our conversation.

"Mr. Grissom, what did the note say?" he studied my face for a moment, deciding if he should tell me or not. I was desperate to know, but at the same time, I trusted his better judgment and whatever verdict he came to.

"That's still a rather sensitive subject," he responded. "It's in your best interest that you leave these things to the team, and let us focus on protecting you."

"How can you protect me?" I raised my voice, slightly annoyed at his sudden lack of urgency. "Valentine's Day is two days away. Are you going to watch me at all times? Are you going to give me a bodyguard? Or a gun?" Grissom sensed the sarcasm in my voice.

"Matilda, until we get everything figured out, maybe you should stay with Greg." He suggested. Well I could have told him that. Still, I wasn't looking to get into a fight with the boss. My head was still throbbing from my fresh, um, boo-boo, and I hadn't had much sleep. I left Grissom to his work, and made my way back to my desk, completely forgetting that I wasn't even on the clock.

All of my life, I had hated Valentine's Day. In elementary school, I only got cards from the girls in my class, and those were mostly out of sympathy. There was never some adorable, munchkin-like boy gazing at me with that goofy gaze of puppy love. High school was even worse. While everyone else saw the day as a reason to make out in the hallways at school, I saw it as a reason to eat lots of those foil wrapped heart-shaped candies. But after the past 24 hours, and the new meaning that the word Valentine had taken in my head, I was sure that I would never neglect to remember February 14th again.


	17. Home Stupid Home

Seventeen

I thought the questions were over when I left Grissom's office, but that was just the beginning. For the next three hours, a slew of CSIs, police, and private investigators delved deep into my personal life, both past and present. I had to laugh at the seriousness of it all, especially when one guy asked me if I knew of anyone who would want to hurt me. I couldn't think of anyone, unless you counted the girl I beat in the 5th grade bake-off. She _was_ pretty pissed.

By the time I finally met back up with Greg, I was tired and crabby, and ready to stab someone for a piece of anything chocolate. I could tell by his expression that Greg had been through the same ordeal I had experienced, and I suddenly didn't care about my own discomforts. I felt sorry for him. It wasn't his fault some serial killer with a cheesy shtick was after me (killing on Valentine's Day? How original, buddy. We'll put you with the other angry ex-boyfriends.).

"Ready to go home?" he asked, running his hand through his product free hair. I have to admit that I liked him in this natural look. I could actually touch his hair now and not get a handful of pomade.

"God yes," I replied, rolling my eyes and slouching my shoulders. My back was throbbing from sitting up straight for so many sleepless hours, and my eyes were watering from my constant yawning.

"Okay, let's go." He said with slight annoyance. I knew he wasn't annoyed at me – he was just bothered by all of the prying people and the entire ordeal. I followed him out to his car, watching him twirl his keys between his long fingers.

"Can we stop at my place to pick up some clothes?" I asked, assuming that Greg knew of our new living arrangements. When he said 'home', I thought he had meant _our_ home, not _my_ home. I liked that since of belonging that if offered. Clearly, though, Greg was completely clueless.

"Wait, what?" he asked, turning around to face me. I was trying what little patience he had left.

"Grissom said that it would be best if I stayed with you for a while," I explained, stumbling over my words like a teenage boy whose mom had just caught him masturbating. "Just until this blows over." Greg studied my face for a moment, trying to decipher if I was serious or not.

"He didn't mention it to me," he finally said.

"It's okay, Greg," I put up my hand before he could say anything else. "If you're not comfortable with it, I completely understand. Maybe I can stay with Sara."

"Matilda, _no_," he protested. "Of course I want you to stay with me. Don't be ridiculous. I was just surprised, that's all." I felt a wave of relief wash over my body, and my tense shoulders fell back to their lazy slouch. For the first time in our relationship, I had felt that Greg was disapproving of something I was doing, or who I was. I had never felt him pass such an extreme judgment on me before, and I was scared; scared for what it could mean for me _and_ us. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and kissed me on the top of my head, trying to physically reassure me. Maybe I was just being paranoid again. I swear, sometimes my own mind is trying to sabotage my life.

When we finally got to Greg's apartment building, goosebumps popped up on my arms and legs, and I shuddered a bit. Even the outside appearance brought back memories of the man I had seen in the rain. I wondered if I would forever have a negative association with Greg's house; or worse, with Greg. He noticed my discomfort and took my hand as I stepped out of the car.

"You okay?" he asked, concern in his eyes. I shook my head 'yes' and let him lead me inside, his hand resting on the small of my back the entire time. It wasn't until we got past the front door that I remembered Cornelius.

"My car!" I shouted, startling Greg and making him drop the mail he was holding in his hand.

"Don't do that!" he screeched back like a frightened school girl. A smile developed on my face as I stared at him in his spastic state. He rolled his eyes when he realized that nothing was wrong, and punched me playfully on the arm.

"Greg, Corny is all alone in the world. He's probably cold…and hungry for an oil change." I joked.

"Well, as delicious as those oil changes are…." He began, playing along. "I don't think we'll be seeing your car anytime soon." My playful grin fell and I became genuinely worried.

"Why?"

"Cops brought it into the crime lab last night for investigation," He explained. This was insane. It was like Grissom and the rest of the gang would know more about me than I did. What were they going to search next? My underwear drawer?!

"_Investigation_?" I asked. "What does my beat-up car have to do with it?"

"Matilda, they found an abandoned car in the middle of the Vegas ghetto," he said. "They _had_ to be suspicious. When they found out it was yours, they decided to send it over to the garage at the lab. We're just trying to get any hints that can help." Ordinarily, I would have fought harder for the well-being of my beloved Cornelius. But exhaustion was consuming me minute by minute, and Greg's bed called to me like the sirens in "The Odyssey" – or the singing hillbillies in "O Brother, Where Art Thou?".

"You tired, baby?" he asked as I stifled a yawn.

"Immensely," I responded. Without saying a word, Greg grabbed my hand and took me into his room, where Henry was curled up in a ball on his bed. He silently shooed the dog off, and pulled the sheets down like a dutiful hotel maid. The only thing that was missing was the mint on the pillow. I didn't object when he slipped my coat off of my shoulders, dropping it to the floor and running his hands up and down my arms.

"Greg, you're not getting any," I said, laying down the law. I barely had the energy to stand, let alone have sex.

"Shh," was his only response. He clumsily pulled my sweater over my head so that I was only wearing my bra and pants. I figured he would try to make a move, but instead he guided me over to the bed, his hands pressed on my hips as he stood behind me. I felt his head resting on my shoulder, and his breath tickling my ear. I climbed under the mountain of sheets, and Greg crawled up beside me, pressing his body against mine. He wrapped his arms around my waste and pulled me as close as possible, our noses just barely touching.

"See, I'm not all about sex," he explained. "I just thought you would sleep better without that horrible, constricting sweater." His voice took on a baby-talk tone as he said the last part. I felt like a baby with a diaper rash. 'Aw. Does Matilda-wilda have a little burny-wurny?' Still, I was too tired to worry about such matters. Without saying another word, I closed my eyes and let Greg's steady breathing lull me to sleep.


	18. Stormy Weather

Eighteen

I woke up to an all too familiar scene; the room was dark aside from the light spilling in from the slightly opened door. It was raining outside again, only this time, it was nothing more than a sprinkle of moisture in the air. The sound of the droplets hitting the roof sent a shiver down my spine, and I imagined chunks of ice falling from the clouds. The thought alone made me cold, and I pulled the comforter up around my shoulders. I never knew it could get so chilly in Las Vegas.

That's when I noticed that Greg was gone. I recalled everything before my perfect slumber: the sex, the storm, the serial killer. How could I forget stuff like that? But now that I was awake, all of the details of my life seemed like a dream. Maybe I was just trying to convince myself that I had created the whole scenario in my mind, even when I knew that wasn't the truth. I wanted Greg back by my side. I wanted him to wrap his long, awkward arms around me and protect me from whatever was trying to harm me, whether it be a crazed murderer or just a stormy night.

A hollow thud came from the kitchen, and my first instinct was to get up and investigate. Yet like a scared eight year old, I couldn't seem to lift myself from the bed. What if a monster was waiting under the mattress, preparing to grab my ankles the second I stood up? What if I found something gruesome waiting for me outside the bedroom, like one of Henry's poop surprises? Or Worse? The thud came again, only louder this time, and I finally summoned the courage to find out what, or who, was disturbing my peace.

"Greg?" I called out, instantly regretting my action. Everyone knows that you don't yell before you sneak up on somebody. It's like dumb cops on police shows who shout, "I'm coming to arrest you!" before they actually find the criminal. Oy vey.

There was no answer from Greg; just the sound of Henry's wagging tail smacking against the floor. I reached down to affectionately rub behind his ear, but bolted upright again when the thud persisted. I followed the sound, tiptoeing on the soft carpeting, until I found myself in the kitchen….and there….in the kitchen…..was the most horrible, terrorizing thing I had ever seen….

SHUTTERS FROM THE SEVENTIES!!!

The sounds I had been hearing were nothing more than Greg's tacky window shutters thumping up against the outside of the building from the wind. I buried my head in my hands and laughed at myself, incredulous of my own stupidity. It had been a long time since I had believed in the Boogie Man, so why was I suddenly fearing him all over again? Of course, under such circumstances as mine, being afraid of the dark and things that go bump in the night wasn't so crazy.

I started walking back to Greg's room, still unsure of where he was. Maybe Grissom had called him in ASAP, and he had left me a note. Searching the counters in the kitchen and the living room, I found no sign of Greg or his sudden dash to the office. I knocked softly on the bathroom door, but there was no reply. It was true that his apartment was bigger than mine, but it wasn't _that_ big. There were only so many places where a man of his stature could hide. Maybe he had gone to get something to eat? Or maybe his mother had called and had fallen into the toilet and couldn't get out? Or maybe not…

Just then, I heard a scratching sound coming from the hall closet, like a cat sharpening its claws. I wasn't even concerned for my own safety anymore or the idea that Freddy Krueger was out to get me. I was just worried about Greg and whether he was okay or not. I stumbled over to the closet at an alarmingly fast pace, like someone else had inhabited my body; someone else with a lot of courage. The door knob felt cool on my skin as I slowly opened the door, afraid of what might be inside.

Within seconds, I was down on the ground, pinned by a heavy, dark figure. He had forced the closet door open, and I could now feel and smell his hot breath on my face. He had been drinking – a lot. I struggled beneath the force, kicking my legs and desperately trying to knee him in the groin, but my attempts were futile. The more I squirmed, the more he seemed to enjoy it. I tried to scream out for Greg, or for help from anyone for that matter, but the man cupped his sweaty hand over my mouth. I bit down hard on his flesh, and he yelped from the pain, but didn't lessen his grip. Was this my stalker? Was this the man that was going to kill me?

Henry was barking ferociously at the stranger, obviously being able to differentiate between a hostile situation and Greg and I's foreplay. The dog knew just as well as I did that this was not his owner. The dark figure was unfazed by the animal, and simply pushed him away with his free arm. But Henry wasn't so easy to get rid of. Almost instantly, the dog lashed out at the man and sunk his long canine teeth into his arm, producing a spray of blood. I took the opportunity to pull myself out from underneath him and make a run for the door, all the while screaming as loud as my lungs would permit. I wanted people in _China_ to hear me.

To my surprise, the front door to the apartment opened and Greg came stumbling in, his eyelids droopy and blood dripping from his mouth. Dark purple bruises were developing on his cheeks, and he swayed from side to side, as if he were going to collapse at any moment. I tried to run to him, to save both of us, but I was seized from behind by the other man and tackled back down to the floor.

Everything after that was a blur. There was a rush of movement as I lay under the stranger, his hefty body weight now more apparent than ever. His elbow was pressed against my mouth, and I could feel blood flowing between my teeth from the immense pressure. Both men were yelling and struggling frantically on the ground, one to free me and the other to keep me captive. Henry barked and growled, becoming more violent as he became more confused on what was happening.

And then….silence. There were no more angry shouts, no more grunts of pain or protest. I listened for a moment, trying to figure out what had happened. I longed to call out to Greg, to see if he was okay or not, but the stranger answered my question for me. He had obviously won the fight, and was now ready to claim his praise. Without a word or signal of his next action, he struck me in the forehead with something hard and cold, like a hammer or the butt of a handgun. I blacked out instantly.


	19. All Shook Up

Hi kids! Just dropping a friendly little note to say thanks for all of the reviews I've been getting! You guys crack me up. It feels good to know that at least a few people are reading my material and liking it. Just to give a fair warning: this chapter is by far the most serious I have written to date. I didn't intend to make the story come out this way, but I never know where my mind is leading me next. I'm not even sure where I'm going with _rest_ of the plot. But thanks for the support! And keep sending me ideas and suggestions. They really help.

-Aven

Nineteen

The room he kept me in was nothing like I had ever expected. In movies, kidnappers usually stuff their victims into dark closets or tie them to beds in battered rooms. But this place was completely different: it was immaculate. I could tell that he wanted his victims to feel like they belonged here, not that he had forced them to be here. The bare walls were painted a pale grey-blue, and the only furniture was an asylum style twin bed with no sheets and a lonely nightstand. He left a plastic pitcher of water out for me, but no glass to pour it into. He obviously made sure that I couldn't harm myself with anything in the room before he got to it.

There was one window, but it was too high off the ground for me to reach. Even after I pushed the bed up against the wall and stood on the mattress, my arms weren't able to touch the thick glass or the steel bars that covered it. Still, I was thankful for the window. It was my last connection with the outside world, and I needed the reassurance that someone could still find me; someone out there in the world could still save me. Judging by when the sun went down and my room got dark, I determined that I had been in there for two days, although it felt like longer.

My throat had gone hoarse from screaming for hours and hours, hoping that someone would hear my cries out the window, or at the least, annoy my kidnapper. Yet he didn't seem to mind. All I knew of this man was that he sat outside of my door, listening to what sounded like scratchy old opera records. I would hear him stir, and my heart would stop, wondering what he was doing. Was he going to come in here? Was he going to rape me? Or kill me? In those first two days, he did neither. He just sat in his creaky chair, listening to a combination of his music and my violent yelling.

By the time the sun came up on the third day, my body was drained of all its energy and my mind was beginning to play tricks on me. I hadn't had contact with another human in almost half a week, and my own thoughts were driving me crazy. I started thinking about the obvious, like Greg and whether he was okay or not. I had never been a religious person, but I prayed that he had recovered from the ordeal and was relentlessly searching for me with the rest of the crime lab. But then my thoughts went to the most random things, like the time in third grade when I wet my pants in front of the entire class. Maybe it was true that your life flashed before your eyes before you died….only my "flash" was more like a grand epic.

Desperate for anything to eat or drink (the water was gone by the first evening), I decided to try to talk to the mysterious man. My consequences could be severe, but that was a chance I was willing to take. I hadn't eaten anything in three days, not even a single grape, and my stomach turned with hunger pangs. Besides, whatever punishment he prepared couldn't be as bad as staying in a room with an unflushable toilet full of my own waste.

I gathered all of my remaining strength and stumbled over the door, leaning against the wall for support. The room spun, and the distorted opera music began to sound like voices talking. Or maybe those were just the voices in my head. I lightly knocked on the wood of the door, but there was no response. Trying again, I knocked harder, getting a splinter in my finger in the process. His music came to an abrupt stop, and an immense silence fell over the two of us. After a long pause, I summoned the courage to say something.

"Hello?" The sound of my own voice shocked me. It sounded so raspy, so vulnerable. There was no response from the other side, so I continued talking. "I need food! I haven't eaten in three days!" Like he didn't already know that.

I waited a long while for his reply, hearing the occasional shift of his body weight from time to time. With every creak and squeak, I thought that maybe was actually going to send me something, anything, to eat. Even dog food would work. But as more time went by, I realized that he was apathetic to my request. Something deep inside of me made me fume with anger, wondering how one human being could do this to another. Why did he think he had the power to control me and what I did?

I pounded harder on the door now, making sure that he heard me. I wasn't so much afraid anymore as I was pissed off.

"Listen to me, you sick fuck!" I screamed. "I don't know who the fuck you are and I don't give a shit! You pathetic son a bitch! You'll burn in hell for what you did to me!" The vile words poured out of me, and I immediately clasped my hand over my mouth, disbelieving of what I had just said. In all my life, I had never felt so much hostility and unadulterated rage. Tears flowed from my eyes as I cursed myself on the inside for being so stupid. Why would I provoke a dangerous murderer? How could I do something so idiotic?

I could hear the man undoing chains and locks on the outside of the door, and I cowered into the corner, wrapping my arms around my body as if that would protect me. By that point, I was in a full out sob, pleading with my still unknown captor through the door.

"Please!" I begged of him. "Please don't kill me! God, please help me!" My words trailed off as my sobs became heavier. The room was blurry from my tears, and my chin quivered.

The doorknob turned slowly, until a loud click came from the rusty metal and the door opened. I shielded my face with my arms, unable to look at the person who was causing me so much pain. If he was going to kill me now, I didn't want him to have the satisfaction of seeing my tear-soaked face. I must have stayed in that same position for half an hour, waiting for my demise. When the man made no further advances towards me, I looked up to see what he could possible be doing.

Through the door frame, I saw a tall and thin shadow of a figure, outlined by a bright light that radiated from behind him. His features were hidden under darkness, and the only thing I could hear was the sound of a chain hanging from his belt loop, rocking back and forth with his body. As my eyes adjusted to the light, his face began to take shape, and my mind went fuzzy. My mouth fell wide open in disbelief, and my entire body became numb. Even as my head was spinning, the room was standing still, as if time had stopped. Somehow, I found the strength to say one thing to this man; this man who wasn't a strange after all.

"Greg?"


	20. Fear and Loathing

Twenty

"Try again," the man said, a sinister tone in his voice. That's when I realized that the light coming from behind him had distorted his figure – and his appearance. The person who I thought was Greg was actually a complete stranger, hovering over me like a vulture. His shoulders drooped, and his uncut hair fell in his eyes. Aside from his height, nearing 6'3, there was nothing threatening about him.

"Who are you?" I choked out, fearful of what his next action would be.

"You're not very polite." He nodded his head in disapproval like a strict finishing school teacher. Call me crazy, but being polite wasn't at the top of my priorities list.

"Who are you?" I asked again through clenched teeth, my frustration and anger rising. He didn't respond to my question; he only stared at me, waiting for one of us to make a move. I tried to get him to keep talking, before he became restless and did something terrible.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I questioned him, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

"Because I like you," he responded, smiling innocently. I cringed at his total lack of compassion or grip on reality.

"You _like_ me?" I said in disbelief. "You don't even know me, you sick monster." As if my mild insult would deter his insanity.

"That's what you think," he began. "But I've been watching you a lot. I've seen you driving in your car, and when you go to the grocery store. I even saw you walking in the rain that day your poor little car broke down and you left it on the side of the road. Let's see….what else?" I stared at him in complete shock as he listed off all the personal details of my life; things even I had forgotten about.

"I also know that you call your mother every Thursday night to check in with her," he continued. "And that you spend a lot of time at Greg Sander's house. I thought maybe he was just a friend at first, but I guess not, especially after you two had sex."

"How do you know about that?" I screamed. How could this complete stranger know so much about me when I knew nothing about him? Why was he following _me_ around, and worrying about _my_ life?

"Don't act like you don't remember," he taunted me. "I was there that night. You took the dog out and I was there to surprise you." Of course I remembered him now: he was the man outside of Greg's apartment – the one with the bloody, decapitated head. I squished my body back into the corner of the room, realizing how capable he could be of violence.

"So why didn't you tell me about him?" he asked, inching his body closer to mine. The closer he came, the more confined I felt, as if the walls were closing in on me.

"Him?"

"Greg, you stupid slut." He spat out, his voice taking on a cruel edge. My entire body tensed at the insult, and my heart practically jumped out of my chest.

"What are you talking about?" My mind, which was already weak from lack of food and sleep, was now a complete jumble of memories and events that had occurred since I first arrived in Vegas. How much had he seen of me? How much did he know?

"I did everything for you," he complained, his voice becoming slightly high pitched like someone who was about to cry. "I gave up everything for you so that we could be together, and this is how you repay me? You fuck someone else?!"

I thought about his words for a moment, racking my brain, trying to remember where I had heard those same phrases. My mind traveled back to my childhood, and to all of the friends I had in elementary school. I never got along with boys, so all of my friends had been girls, most of whom I still knew. I recalled high school, some of the best and worst years of my life, and tried to think of every guy I had ever dated, or even encountered. Did I know him from somewhere? Or was he just messing with my head? He took note of my confusion.

"You honestly don't know who I am, do you?" he asked, hurt in his voice. I almost felt sympathy for him at that very second – almost. He cringed and shook his head, biting down hard on his lip and clenching his fists. Tears began to well up in his eyes, but his face maintained that stern and evil look.

"I'm the love of your life," He said.


	21. Mr Rogers On Crack

Twenty-One

His words hit me like a freight train going 100 miles per hour. All this time, I had thought that this was anonymous; that the killer had randomly picked me, or that he had linked me with the crime lab. I just assumed that maybe one of my co-workers had screwed over a criminal, and now the convict was back for revenge. But that was not the case. On the contrary, this was more personal than I had ever expected.

"Roger?" I asked quietly. Roger Marx had been my first real beau in high school; my first kiss, my first prom, everything. He was even the first guy I had sex with. Back then, Roger had been so comforting and gentle. He had been my rock when the rest of the world turned on me, or when someone was bullying me. Yet now, he was doing the bullying.

"You sound surprised," he answered in his classic matter-of-fact tone. I starred at him longer, my blurry eyes trying to contemplate the man who stood in front of me. He looked nothing like the Roger I used to know. He was skinny and awkward, with the pale complexion of a shut-in. His face obviously hadn't been shaven in a few days, and a sad looking beard was clinging to his chin. His hair was greasy and unkempt, and his nails were dirty and long.

"What on earth are you doing?" I questioned him in disbelief, now more shocked than frightened.

"What am I _doing_?" he mocked my words. "I'm teaching you a lesson. You made promises to me, and you didn't keep them." I stared at him blankly as he continued his explanation. "You told me you loved me, and that you would never love anyone else. You promised that we would always be together, and that you would never even _look_ at another guy. I gave you everything; I gave you all I had, and you took it without thanks or gratitude. I gave you my virginity, for Christ's sake."

Well, he was still as well-articulated as ever.

I pondered his words for a minute, trying to recall these promises he spoke of. I'm sure I had said things along those lines, but who hadn't? I was a dumb kid in high school who thought that I knew what I wanted in life. I expected Roger and I to get married, even though I cringed at the idea at having the initials of M.M. We would have a dozen kids, and buy a big house in the farm, complete with cows and chickens. But that was just a stupid dream, and when I said those things to Roger, they were just naïve expressions of my feelings.

"Roger," I began, trying to reason with him as if he were still my old boyfriend. "That was _years_ ago. We broke up a long time ago, and I've moved on in my life. You knew we would never be together again after I went to college." I watched his face, hoping to see a sign of understanding or recognition, but there was nothing. I waited for his response, hoping that his mild demeanor wasn't just the calm before the storm.

"Matilda," he said, his tone subdued. "You _cannot_ just say things like that to people and expect them to forget about it. Because of what you said, I had my entire life planned out. But when you left, everything I thought I knew went down the drain; I was nobody. It was like you took my identity with you." He signed heavily and sat down on the bed, his tall frame slouching over to match his depressed mood. I thought about taking advantage of his vulnerable state and making a run for it, but he was still much larger and stronger than me. I tried to relax my rigid body in hopes of showing him that I was still the friend he once had; that I could still be comfortable with him. But I wasn't so lucky.

His head snapped up as he noticed my weight shift, and he became aware of the entire situation again. I was still his hostage, and he was still my brutal captor. He jumped to his feet and stomped over to me, each of his steps sounding heavier and heavier as he inched closer. Grabbing my arm, he pulled me up from my squatting position and pressed my back against the cold concrete wall, his face only inches from my own. I could feel and smell his hot, gross breath, and I winced, regretting that I had ever wanted to kiss that mouth.

"Listen, you stupid whore," he started, pushing his index finger into my chest, his nail digging into my skin. "You knew I never wanted you to leave, but you did it anyway. You thought you were better than me, but you're not. You're a worthless bitch who screws other guys." I flinched at his mention of 'screwing other guys', and again wondered how he knew about Greg and me in the first place.

"Please," I begged, not sure of what he was going to next. I squirmed beneath him, trying to kick at him as best as I could, but he pinned both of my legs down with one of his knees. Not knowing what else to do, I tried to momentarily ditch the damsel in distress act and take matters in to my own hands. Conjuring up as much phlegm as three water-less days could provide in the back of my throat, I spat right into his eyes, disgusted at my own mucus production.

"You bitch!" he yelled, moving one of his arms away from my body to wipe the spit from his eyes. I seized the opportunity and used my free hand to smack him hard against the cheek. The force made a hefty red mark on his skin, but he wasn't put off by my physical abuse; in fact, he was encouraged by it. Balling his hand into a fist, he punched me hard on the side of my head, letting me drop to the floor. I grabbed my head in pain and braced my body for more punishment, not knowing that he would be the next to be hurt.

A sudden, loud thud came from the bedroom door that he had made sure to close behind him when entering. Roger and I both turned to see what had produced the noise, and we again heard the sound, only louder this time. The entire door cracked, and the walls of the run-down building quacked. Boom! One last blast and the entire entrance came crashing down to the ground. Before I knew what was happening, a flurry of men in SWAT uniforms had tackled Roger to the ground, and I was being lifted by my arms to safety.


	22. Free At Last

Twenty-Two

I don't remember much after that moment, only vague, insignificant details. The SWAT team practically _dragged_ me outside, where dozens of cop cars and an ambulance were waiting. Their red and blue lights were dizzying, and I felt queasy from all of the movement around me. Good thing I didn't have any food in my system, or I would have surely thrown up. Although it was typically hot outside, with the warm, dry air shocking my system after being in air conditioning for so long, the paramedics insisted on wrapping me up in a blanket as they checked my vitals and overall condition. Someone later told me that I was in a complete daze, and I was even acting a little loopy. Apparently, when one of the doctors tried to find the pulse in my wrist with his fingers, I gave him a high five and tried to do a goofy "gangsta" handshake.

A few days later, I woke up in a dark and quiet hospital room. There was a dull glow from the mounted TV screen, and I could see that "The Price is Right" was on. Audience members were screaming out numbers to confused contestants, and to my surprise, someone next to me was yelling out numbers, too.

"Seven, you idiot! Seven!" It was Greg, sitting on the edge of a chair next to my bed. Despite being caught up in the world of Bob Barker, he was cradling my right hand in his lap, affectionately rubbing his palm over my own. I wiggled my fingers a bit to let him know that I was awake.

"Greg?" I said as loudly as I could, and he turned to look at me, a huge smile across his face.

"Hey, beautiful," he said, forgetting about his fun pricing games. He started to rub my head lovingly, but I winced when he grazed my fresh bruise. "Sorry," he apologized, pulling his hand away.

"What time is it?" I asked, finding it difficult to speak.

"It's a hair past a freckle," he joked, staring at his bare arm like it was a shiny new Rolex. I couldn't help but grin.

"Why am I here?" I could recall the events of the past few days, but I don't ever remember becoming severely injured.

"Oh my god! She's got amnesia!" Greg shouted. I put up my hand in protest and quieted him before he made a scene.

"No, Greg, I'm fine," I began. "I remember _everything_. I just don't know why I'm in the hospital."

"Phew," he sighed with relief, wiping fake sweat from his brow and leaning back in his chair. "Well you hadn't eaten or had anything to drink in, like, three days. Plus you took a pretty nasty blow to the head. The doctors just wanted to make sure you're alright." I nodded, letting him know that I understood.

"What happened to Roger?" I hadn't meant to wonder that out loud, but the drugs they had me on were taking a toll on my good judgment. Greg noticeably tensed up when I mentioned the name of my ex-boyfriend and ex-captor.

"Last I heard, he was being put through a psychiatric evaluation," he responded. "Good thing, too, because if they brought that bastard within 20 feet of me, I would kill him with my own two hands." Normally, I would have been shocked at such a violent sentiment from Greg, but I couldn't blame him. Roger had put Greg through as much crap as he had put me through.

I let out a huge yawn, my body signaling my weariness to the outside world. It was true that I was tired, but I didn't want to sleep. I wanted to stay awake with Greg; I wanted to ask him how he was doing, and how the crime lab, or whoever it was, had found me. But as these questions and others plagued my mind, I drifted into a deep slumber.

Eventually, I heard Roger's side of the story, or at least his take on reality. He had been searching for me since we broke up after high school, calling my parents in the wee hours of the morning and begging them for my address. My mom told me that she only kept it a secret so that I wouldn't be afraid to go out into the world on my own; heck, she didn't want me living in their basement until I was 42. That was probably the best decision for both my parents and me.

Roger had given up hope a while back, but his affection and emotions came tumbling back when he saw me on Halloween night. He had been in the same theatre as Greg and I, watching the same cheesy horror flick. At first, I found it hard to believe that he was in such close proximity without my knowledge, but I suppose he does blend in well with the freaks of Vegas. He had only used the whole "Valentine killer" thing as a diversion for the authorities, and it had worked – for a short time. Grissom, being the genius that he is, noticed that Roger didn't wait until February 14th to kidnap me; he actually did it the day _before_ Valentine's Day. That was the first hint that Roger was nothing but a cult-obsessed wannabe. The crime lab identified the spilt blood in Greg's apartment as Roger's, and the rest was just a matter of tracking him down.

I can't say I _hate_ Roger; it's rare that I _hate_ anyone. But I do hate what he did to me. I mean, for the first time in a long time, I felt that I was in a healthy and real relationship with Greg. Of course, something like this had to happen in the middle of our ridiculous bliss. It was kind of a good experience, though. Not knowing if I would live to see tomorrow really made me value what I have today, as corny as that is; and what I have today is Greg. I knew he was thinking the same thing of me, because once I was released from the hospital, his affection, both physically and emotionally, was endless. Within a month, he had asked me to move in to his swanky apartment with him, and I was more than happy to become an adoptive mother to Henry. I even got a new car: Corneli_a_. She is just so damn beautiful! She looks just like her father Tear

When I finally returned to work, Greg was there to make things better, even though they weren't that bad to begin with. After dealing with a man like Roger, Missy seemed like a cuddly teddy-bear. After my first day back, Greg insisted that he carry me to my chariot, jokingly of course.

"How 'bout we just walk?" I offered, seeing the defeat in his face. Still, he obliged, throwing a lanky arm around my shoulders.

"Matilda," he asked, glaring at me out of the corner of his eye. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," I responded. He cleared his throat, and I prepared myself for the worst.

"Do you have any other creepy ex-boyfriends that you want to tell me about?"

The End….or is it?


End file.
